BrD 


Ani 


BY 


Son  iKark  Croum 


Iroabmag 
dampattg, 


fork 


Copyrighted,    1902, 
Copyrighted,    1905, 


DON"   MARK   LEMON. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


As  one  who  for  a  season  has  been  confined 
In  some  dense  city,  at  whose  brazen  gate 
Delight,  and  Love  and  Beauty  rarely  wait, 

And  song  breathes  never  on  the  smoky  wind, 

At  last,  rejoicing,  leaves  those  scenes  behind 
Of  cheerless  trade  and  commerce,  and,  elate, 
Hies  him  toward  the  country's  green  estate 

With  willing  heart  and  newly  sweetened  mind: 

So  leaves  the  Bard  the  dusty  paths  of  prose 
And  hastes  to  his  beloved  Muse  again ; 

Leaves  unmelodious  writings  to  compose 
Songs  liquid  sweet  as  springs  Pierian; 

And  as  he  sings  of  summer  and  the  rose 
Joy  holds  the  Poet's  hand  and  guides  his  pen ! 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A   Little   People 297 

A    Lying    Press 245 

A    Memory 358 

A  Moral   Tale 241 

A  New  Pleasure 302 

A    Prayer 236 

A  Prelude  323 

A  Statistical   Poem 340 

Adeline    300 

Alice    258 

An  Evil  Book 321 

Big  Game  339 

Call   Him  a  Poet 213 

Can  This  Be  Home,  Sweet  Home? 355 

Clara  O'Dee   306 

Columbia    335 

Drifting    233 

Duty    251 

Enough!  Strike  Deep  and  Let  Me  Go 343 

Eros  Seeking  203 

Fancy's    Bark    356 

Fate     267 

Florence 138 

Fortune  Sick   379 

Four  Books   .  .  224 


iv  Contents. 

PAGE 

Gladness    367 

Gone  is  a    Strenuous   Spirit 315 

Gone,  One  More  Faithful  Friend 311 

Hannah  Moore    240 

Hate 243 

Her  Beauty  is  a  Climbing  Rose 342 

Her   Fortune    271 

Her    Step   is   Music 227 

Honor    200 

How  soon  a  Nation  can  Forget,  O  Lord 277 

Hypocrisy     221 

Dreamt  the  Stars  are  Characters 257 

Know,  I  Know 281 

Know  Where  the  Sunbeams  Go 361 

Like  to  Think  This  Best  of  Worlds 247 

Love  My  Country  Not  the  Less 329 

Loved  You  for  Your  Beauty  First 285 

Saw  Her  Lovely  Face  But  Once 388 

Think:  I  Know   330 

Thought  to  Write  My  Name  in  Gold 249 

I  Would  Not  Hurt  Her  Little  Hand 286 

If    327 

If  Genius  were  but  Catching 296 

If  Half  the  Riches  Spent  on  War 351 

If  She  Should  Die  To-Night 266 

Ignorance    313 

In  These,  Our  Times 209 

lone     4 

Isabel    172 

Keats     170 

Kiss  Me,  Dear,  and  Let's  Forget 290 

Lake  Tahoe   322 

Laughology     204 

Lenore     354 

Liberty  Lives :  Her  Soldier  is  Dead 368 

Life's   Failures    281 

Lines     294 

Live  On,  Old  Tree 206 

Love     , . .       .  369 


Contents  v 

PAGE 

Love's    Pyrography    2;">6 

Luther  at  Wartburg 248 

Make  Room  for  Youth 217 

Mammon     346 

Marriage     348 

May  Such  Books  Perish 243 

Motley     201 

My  Heart  is  with  My  Bees  To-Day 269 

My  Life  was  a  Round  of  Golden  Days 314 

My  Love  a  Constant  Beauty  is 223 

My  Love  is  Full  of  Pretty  Ways 264 

My  Sweet  Thoughts  are  My  Daughters 307 

My    Queen 370 

Not  Always    287 

Nothing  Comes  of  It 279 

Now  Morn  upon  the  Rosy  Hills 288 

O   Darken    the   Window 220 

O  Don  thy  Kerchief 338 

O  For  a  Sparklins:  Bowl  of  Laughter 246 

O  Ghost,  I  Have  Thee  Now 295 

O  God,  if  Ever  We  Had  Cause  for  Fear 215 

O  Lass  of  the  Land  of  the  Listed  Lance 229 

O  Poet,  Build  for  Me  a  Splendid  Home 202 

O  Poet,  Open  Wide  the  Gate  of  Dreams 318 

O  Set  a  Window 205 

O  She  is  a  Poem 299 

O  She  is  Fair  to  Look  Upon 387 

O  Sing  Me  a  Song  of  My  Native  Land 331 

O  Take  that  Picture  from  the  Wall 214 

O  That  Good  Ink 245 

O  Thou  Who  Art  Divinely  Gifted 234 

O  When  Shall  Dawn  that  Splendid  Day?.. 237 

Ode  to   Liberty   Bell 238 

Ode  to  the  Airship 353 

Of  Many  Fools,  I  Loathe  the  Most 289 

Old    Dan    Miller 261 

One  of  the  Millions 381 

Out  of  My  Brain  the  Music  Has  Fled 304 

Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poorhouse 374 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

Palmistry     284 

Phoebe     319 

Pluck  and  Luck 231 

Put  Money  in  Your  Purse 177 

Rhyme     360 

Rosabell    115 

Rosa    Lee 198 

Scandal     360 

Shall    Lovers    Dwell    Apart? 270 

She  Has  Her  Faults  Like  Other  Maids 312 

She  Wears  a  Starry  Crown  of  Deeds 342 

So  Deep  in  Love  Am  1 210 

Somewhere      390 

Take  Back  These  Honeyed  Songs 250 

Take  Down  Those  Gifts " 227 

The  Billionaire    251 

The  Book  of  Yosemite 211 

The  Column   218 

The  Divorcee  Dinner 291 

The    Hours     278 

The  Human  Tongue 230 

The  Land  of  Washington 363 

The   Loving  Couple 332 

The  Moral   Poet 255 

The  Old  Folks  Are  Growing  Old,  Old 362 

The   Other   Half 337 

The  Pen    295 

The   Poet    226 

The  Poet  is  a  Deity 264 

The  Poets'  Queen 392 

The    Present    268 

The   Prophet 272 

The  Rose  That  Bloomed  in  Eden 310 

The  Song  That  Lives  for  Aye 328 

The  Spirit  of  War 207 

The  Storm    283 

The  Two  Voices 222 

The  Wheel  of  Child  Labor 235 

There  Are  More  Ways  of  Pleasing  God  than  One..  305 
They're  Training  Boys  to  Murder 197 


Contents.  vii 

PAGE 

Tired     298 

'Tis    Better    Far 216 

To  Trade    309 

Truth     359 

Two  Friends   276 


Viola 


War     324 

War     .375 

What  Dreams  Unto  the  Rich  Will  Come 376 

What  Though  the  Garden  of  the  Muses  Yield? 317 

When  Beauty  Builds  Beneath  the  Stars 354 

When  I  Consider 324 

Where  is  My  Little  Girl  To-Night? 389 

Why?     378 

Will  He,  Nill  He 326 

Woman     335 

Your   Beauty    Left  Me   Marveling 306 


OF  THE 

('  UNIVERSITY 

OF 

£*Lir' 


1ONE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  POETS'  QUEEN. 

She  sprung  from  Beauty's  immemorial  line, 
And  was  herself  the  fairest  of  her  race; 
And  ever  to  her  stately  dwelling  place 

The  minstrels  came,  like  palmers  to  a  shrine. 

Where  Hesper  is  the  evening  star  in  June, 
Westward  she  dwelt  amid  an  island  estate; 
There  Neptune's  steed  champed  at  her  sea-girt 
gate 

And  regal  palms  shook  to  the  silver  moon. 

Beneath  her  latticed  casement,  sweet  with  balm, 
The  narcissus  and  the  rose  first  heaved  the  sod, 
And  Love — the  poets  sung — awaked  a  God 

Amid  her  garden  of  perpetual  palm. 


2  lone, 

Her  beauty  was  of  earth  as  roses  are — 

Mortal,  but  nothing  that  might  lead  astray : 
The  glory  of  her  eyes  held  sovereign  sway, 

But  blasted  none,  like  some  bright,  evil  star. 

A  splendid  pride  was  softened  in  her  mien- 
She  bended  as  the  stately  lily  bends 
When  silver  dew  upon  the  field  descends, 

And  bows  that  flower  low,  but  not  to  stain. 

Her  eyes  were  bright  as  stars  set  for  a  sign 
In  heaven,  and  in  her  soft-clustering  hair 
The  Spirit  and  the  Love  that  made  her  fair 

Had  left  the  fragrance  of  its  breath  divine. 

Forever  open  and  forever  bright, 

Her  sculptured  gates  looked  out  upon  the  sea; 

Fit  entrance  to  her  halls  where  Poetry 
Dwelt  like  a  Presence  all  compact  of  light. 

Queen  of  the  Poets  and  Olympus'  Nine, 

Oft  would  she  walk  at  twilight's  pensive  close 
Where  silver  fountains  like  young  palms  uprose, 

And  hark  unto  bright  ^Bolus  in  the  pine. 

Or  with  the  morn,  soft-op'ning  as  the  rose, 
And  with  the  rose's  vermeil  flush  and  light, 
She  took  her  harp  and  bid  adieu  to  night, 

While  chord  by  chord  the  stars  sunk  to  repose. 


And  Other  Poems. 

But,  lo !  long  seasons  she  has  been  at  rest, 
And  no  more  shall  inspire  the  minstrel  brood, 
And  given  are  her  isles  to  solitude 

Like  a  dead  Orion  within  the  west. 


4  lone, 


IONE. 


PART  I. 

Through  the  red  and  three-forkt  levin 
Flaming  o'er  the  troubled  heaven, 
Cold  and  pallid,  like  a  spirit, 
Looks  the  moon  upon  the  deep. 
There  a  merchant  bark  is  riding 
That  the  hand  of  Death  is  guiding, 
And  her  timbers  are  colliding 
With  the  jagged  rocks  that  leap 
Like  Destruction  from  the  waters, 
Like  a  demon  sent  to  reap 
All  the  vessel  hath  in  keep. 

HarTc  !    It  is  the  sailors  calling, 
Calling  down  the  winds  appalling 
Where  the  lightning  points  Disaster 
Riding  on  the  blast  o'erhead! 
Hark!    The  sheathed  mast  is  riven, 
Goring  at  the  cruel  heaven, 
And  the  merchant  bark  is  driven 


And  Other  Poems. 

Where  Destruction  lifts  its  head, 
And  her  splitted  timbers  tremble 
For  that  setting  deep  and  dread 
To  the  stormy  ocean's  bed ! 

Hark!    The  blow  hath  been  delivered, 
And  the  oaken  bark  is  shivered; 
Every  ebb  gives  up  a  spirit, 
Every  flow  a  'human  core ! 
O'er  the  rocks  the  lightning  burneih, 
(Whence  a  corpse  alone  returneth!) 
And  each  ruffian  billow  spurneth 
Some  dead  body  to  the  shore; 
Heaps  its  dea_d-  along  the  surf-line 
And  retreats  amain  for  more, 
•Lashed  into  a  maddened  roar. 

From  the  rocks  a  bell  is  tolling, 
But  the  hour  is  past  controlling,— 
Death  has  taken  up  the  hour-glass 
And  each  life  he  calls  his  own. 
No,  not  all ! — one  soul  is  clinging 
To  that  bell  the  winds  are  ringing, 
And  the  distant  shore  is  bringing 
Help  to  him — and  him  alone: 
He  hath  met  with  Death  and  wrestled 
And  'tis  Death  that's  overthrown 
On  the  bell's  foundation  stone. 


lone, 

He,  among  an  hundred  blasted, 
Lives,  whose  life  hath  still  forecasted 
Sorrow  for  the  gentle  lone 
Dreaming  by  the  troubled  deep. 
Him  the  Destinies  of  sorrow 
Bear  from  forth  the  tempest's  horror 
That  upon  the  bitter  morrow 
He  shall  make  fair  lone  weep, 
Take  the  sunlight  from  her  waking, 
Take  the  love-light  from  her  sleep, 
And  make  way  for  Death  to  reap. 

Him  they  bear  unto  the  landing: 
Bruised  and  faint,  but  still  commanding, 
He  demands  of  those  around  him 
Where  the  lady  lone  dwells : 
"I  have  letters  I  must  give  her, 
And  a  message  to  deliver — 
Be  it  o'er  yon  raging  river 
Like  a  gulf  between  two  hells, 
Be  it  where  yon  bell  is  ringing, 
I  will  hasten  where  she  dwells 
While  the  love  I  bear  impels." 

"If  ye  seek  the  lady  lone 
Ye  must  pass  the  river  Lion, 
Ye  must  face  a  death  by  waters, 
Face  the  Death  within  his  home. 


And  Other  Poems. 

By  the  lightning  that  is  streaming 
Ye  can  see  the  castle  gleaming 
Where  the  lady  now  is  dreaming, 
Couched  within  the  marble  dome; 
But  ye   better   seek  the   Lorelei 
With  her  golden  hair  and  comb 
Than  seek  lone  o'er  the  foam." 


But  the  stranger  passes  the  Lion 
For  the  love  of  gentle  lone, 
For  the  love  he  bears  the  maiden 
As  a  father  bears  his  child; 
Passes  o'er  the  river  Lion 
For  the  love  of  gentle  lone, 
Though  the  wave  is  not  yet  dry  on 
His  gray  hair  and  forehead  mild : 
Passes  to  the  massive  portals 
Where   sweet   lone   is   exiled, 
With  a  dream  of  hope  beguiled. 

"Lo,  a  face  is  at  the  portals — 
Be  it  ghost's  or  be  it  mortal's, 
It   shall  never  have   admittance!" 
Cries  the  Master  of  the  grange. 
"By  the  lightning  that  is  leaning 
From  the  skies,  we  know  its  meaning, 
And  the  harvest  it  is  gleaning, 


8  lone, 

And  the  love  it  would  exchange!; 
Know  a  fiend  stands  at  the  portals 
And  its  presence  nothing  strange 
In  this  night  when  Hell  hath  range. 

"Back,  ye  foul  and  evil  spirit, 
To  the  doom  that  thou  inherit ; 
Back,  ye  fiend,  unto  thy  torments 
While  the  lightning  points  the  way ! 
Back,  ye  fiend,  for  here  is  sleeping 
One  whom  angels  have  in  keeping, 
And  upon  whose  head  are  heaping 
Blessings   for  which    angels   pray. 
Ye  have  followed  Fear  too  closely 
And  ye  cannot  now  betray 
Though  thy  head  be  old  and  gray." 

"I  am  human,  not  a  spirit/' 
Thus  the  Stranger;  "if  ye  fear  it, 
Bring  the  maiden  from  her  chamber 
Whom  you  love — and  I  adore: 
She  will  greet  me  at  the  portal 
As  a  friend  and  as  a  mortal, 
N"or  her  gentle  spirit  startle 
Though  the  lightning  plays  me  o'er. 
I  adore  her  as  a  kinsman, 
Nor  her  father  loves  her  more; 
Open  then  thy  heart  and  door. 


And  Other  Poems. 

l'I  am  human.,  not  a  spirit: 

Were  I  such  I  would  inherit 

But  the  blasts  that  breathe  from  Tophet, 

Not  the  blasts  of  nature  too. 

By  this  coldness  that  congeals  me, 

By  this  faintness  that  o'ersteals  me, 

By  each  frailty  that  reveals  me, 

Judge  me  man  and  judge  me  true ; 

One  that  nature  touches  wholly 

And  hath  touched  with  loss  anew 

Of  a  noble  ship  and  crew. 

"Ye  can  see  the  lightning  flashing, 
Ye  can  hear  the  wild  waves  dashing, 
But  ye  cannot  know  the  sorrow 
That  it  brings  to  other  men! 
Ye  can  hear  the  rolling  thunder, 
And  the  shock  the  deep  leaps  under, 
But  the  heavens  do  not  plunder 
Thee  in  darkness  stygian, 
£Tor  the  forked  tongues  of  lightning 
Leap  into  thy  maddened  ken 
O'er  the  grave  of  ship  and  men !" 

"Enter  in,  and  speak  my  pardon; 
I  have  been  too  harsh  a  warden." 
Here  the  Master,  hasting  forward, 
Takes  the  Stranger  by  the  hand. 


io  lone, 

"Enter  in,  now  I  recall  thee; 
By  the  hearth  I  will  install  thee, 
And  no  evil  shall  befall  thee 
That  my  power  can  withstand. 
Enter  in :  hast  thou  a  message 
From  my  Lady's  native  land, 
From  Hispania's  far-off  strand  ?" 


"I  have  letters  for  the  maiden, 
And  a  message  that  is  laden 
With  the  sighings  of  a  father 
Dying  in  a  prison  hole. 
I,  that  fain  would  die  to  gladden 
This  sweet  maiden,  come  to  sadden 
Her  bright  spirit — yea,  to  madden 
And  convulse  her  gentle  soul ! 
I,  that  hoped  to  bear  Joy's  message, 
Come  with  Horror's  fearful  scroll, 
Which  myself  I  must  unroll!" 


"Christ,  have  mercy!"  cries  the  Master: 

"What  unmerciful  disaster 

Hangs  above  this  gentle  spirit 

Whom  the  angels  all  adore? 

Hath  all  prayer  been  unavailing?— 

Is  the  love  of  heaven  failing, 

That  the  good  are  left  bewailing 


And  Other  Poems.  n 

For  a  light  that  is  no  more? 
If  this  be  the  free-heart's  portion, 
What  then  is  the  guilty' s  store  ? — 
Christ,  have  mercy,  I  implore !" 

"Judge  not  Heaven  in  the  hour 
Of  the  wrong,  but  when  God's  power 
Hath  brought  light  from  out  of  darkness, 
Out  of  evil  hath  brought  good. 
Judge  it  not  at  all  were  wiser, 
Since  we  cannot  be  adviser 
To  our  Lord  and  our  Chastiser 
Though  we  have  all  sin  withstood." 
Thus  the  Stranger  softly  answers 
With  the  lips  of  ripe  manhood, 
And  his  words  are  understood. 

"Yet  inform  me,"  thus  the  Master, 
"Of  this  sorrow  and  disaster — 
What  was  it  befell  the  father? 
What  must  now  befall  his  child? 
Christ,  her  noble  father  dying 
In  the  gaol  where  he  is  lying ! — 
'Tis  a  time  for  work,  not  sighing, — 
To  be  cunning  and  not  wild; 
'Tis  a  time  to  turn  to  Heaven, 
That  its  love  be  reconciled, 
Not  to  doubt  and  be  exiled." 


12  lone, 

"In  Hispania — thus  'tis  stated — 
Lived  a  noble  who  was  hated 
By  the  father  of  sweet  lone 
For  his  evil  life  and  heart: 
He  was  foul  past  all  detraction, 
Cruel  as  death  in  his  exaction, 
False  in  faith  and  false  in  faction, 
Schooled  in  evil  as  an  art: 
One  who  bore*  a  name  of  honor 
But  in  honor  bore  no  part — 
Formed  without  a  blush  or  heart. 

"Long  he  lived,  but  one  dark  morning, 

Seemingly  without  forewarning, 

He  was  murdered  in  a  meadow 

Eastward  bounded  by  the  sea. 

There  was  gladness  in  each  village, 

For  he  nevermore  would  pillage 

Labor  of  its  honest  tillage, 

Of  the  fruits  of  husbandry: 

And  'tis  said  that  morn  the  oxen 

Knelt  upon  the  stormy  lea 

Dumbly  thankful  they  were  free. 

"On  that  fearful  Sabbath  dawning — 
While  the  tyrant's  grave  was  yawning — 
lone  walked  across  the  meadow 
All  alone  in  confidence. 


And  Other  Poems.  13 

Sudden  at  her  feet  upstarted 
Him  she  loved,  and  wildly  darted 
From  her  presence  with  distorted 
Pale  and  bloody  countenance! — 
This  she  told  unto  her  father 
In  a  secret  conference, 
Sick  at  heart  with  love's  suspense. 


"Deeply  was  the  father  troubled, 
But  his  fearfulness  was  doubled 
When  'twas  bruited  that  a  murder 
Was  enacted  with  the  dawn; 
But  his  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  he  gave  his  friends  no  token 
Of  the  things  his  child  had  spoken 
Or  the  face  she  looked  upon. 
Much  he  loved  the  youth  suspected — 
Trusted  him, — to  him  was  drawn 
As  a  father  to  a  son. 

"Then  the  father  rose  in  sorrow 
And  upon  the  bitter  morrow 
Gave  his  child  into  thy  keeping 
Till  the  ax  of  justice  fell : 
But  the  youth  was  unsuspected, 
And  the  guilty  undetected, 
And  the  very  crime  neglected, 


14  lone, 

Till  it  reached  the  Cardinal ; 
Then  the  sleeping  law  awakened — • 
And  all   Eome  stands  sentinel 
O'er  an  innocent  man's  cell! 

"Lo,  behold !  look  where  'tis  written 
How  the  hand  of  Eome  hath  smitten 
Tone's  father  for  the  murder 
That  sweet  Zone's  lover  did! 
Hasten  then  and  waken  lone — 
She  must  pass  the  river  Lion 
Though  the  tears  be  yet  not  dry  on 
Her  warm  cheek  and  drowsy  lid: 
She  must  hasten  to  her  father 
Witnessing  what  hath  been  hid, 
As  her  father  here  hath  bid. 

"Better  that  her  lover  perish 
Than  the  father  she  should  cherish; 
Better  perish  a  false  lover 
Than  an  aged,  guiltless  sire. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  Tone's  admission, 
And  the  father's  deep  suspicion, 
And  the  youth's  unkind  position, 
Were  I  Rome  I  would  enquire 
Deeper  than  these  circumstances, 
Though  enough  they  seem  and  dire 
To  commit  the  youth  to  fire. 


And  Other  Poems.  15 

"For  I  think  the  youth  is  gentle 
And  this  death  was  accidental, 
Though  no  man's  above   suspicion 
Till  the  Tempter  hath  been  bound  I" 
Now — the  Stranger  ceasing — slowly 
Kneels  the  Master  meek  and  lowly — 
Like  a  pious  man  and  holy 
Kneels  upon  the  flinty  ground, 
And  to  God  commends  his  spirit 
And  of  heaven's  love  profound 
Asks  that  patience  may  abound. 

Now,  uprising,  leads  the  Stranger, 

Who  hath  faced  a  sea  of  danger, 

To  a  high  and  spacious  chamber 

Ever  ready  for  a  guest. 

"Rest  ye  here  until  the  breaking 

Of  the  dawn,  and  loner's  waking, 

Then,  in  this  deep  undertaking, 

We  will  act  as  ye  think  best — 

Though  there's  one  way,  one  way  only, 

Which  is  God's  way  manifest, 

And  that  way  ye  did  suggest." 

Now  a  sleep  falls  on  the  Stranger, 
Sleep  too  deep  for  dreams  of  danger, 
And  the  Master  seeks  the  chamber 
Where  sweet  lone  lies  at  rest. 


1 6  lone, 

At  the  threshold  dim  delays  he, 
And  no  call  or  speech  essays  he, 
But  in  love  and  silence  prays  he 
That  the  heavens  guard  his  guest, 
Guard  the  pure  and  gracious  lady 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Best, 
And  all  spirits  pure  and  blest. 

Deep  she  sleepeth  though  the  lightning 
O'er  the  moated  grange  is  brightening, 
Deep  she  sleepeth  though  the  thunder 
Rolls  above  her  bosom  bare. 
From  her  dream  she  doth  not  borrow 
Sadness  for  the  dawning  morrow — 
One  she  is  that  hath  known  sorrow 
But  hath  never  known  despair; 
One  that  hopeth  ere  the  evil, 
Hopeth  after  it  doth  snare; 
Born  to  suffer,  schooled  to  bear. 

In  the  footsteps  of  bright  Pleasure 
Sorrow  follows  with  full  measure — 
Drinking   deep   the   wine  of  gladness 
We  must  drink  the  dregs  at  last; 
So  unto  this  maiden  dreaming, 
With  the  lightning  o'er  her  gleaming, 
And  her  virgin  fancy  teeming 


And  Other  Poems.  17 

With,  the  memories  of  the  past, 
Sorrow  comes  like  some  foul  spirit 
Borne  before  the  midnight  blast, 
Treading  Pleasure's  steps  full  fast. 

Sorrow  comes  to  wake  the  Sleeper 
And  be  made  her  silent  keeper, 
Like  a  guard  placed  o'er  the  guilty, 
Like  a  watch  placed  o'er  the  doomed. 
From  her  prison  it  shall  be  given 
Her  to  still  espy  in  heaven 
Gladness  from  her  presence  driven, 
But  her  spirit  shall  be  entombed, 
And  the  past  can  be  remembered 
But,  ah  nevermore  resumed ! — 
Like  a  vestment  long  consumed. 

One  she  is  that  hath  known  sorrow — 
But  from  certain  griefs  we  borrow 
Kindly  hope  that  leads  and  cheers  us 
Till  our  griefs  no  more  annoy: 
So  with  lone — to  her  gladness 
She  has  borrowed  hope's  sweet  madness 
And  the  present  has  lost  its  sadness 
In  the  future's  promised  joy. 
But,  alas!  the  hour  is  coming 
That  forever  will  destroy 
Hope,  the  dearest  of  employ. 


i8  lone, 

Tenderly,  with  maiden  yearning, — 
Every  thought  of  evil  spurning — 
Still  she  loves  the  noble  Bertrand 
Who,  indeed,  is  innocent; 
And  through  all  her  separation 
Still  her  heart  with  sweet  elation 
Beats  her  lover's  vindication, 
Deep  and  true  and  eloquent: 
Still  she  trusteth  in  his  honor 
With  a  faith  all  confident, 
And  her  faith  is  not  misspent. 

Now  she  dreams  of  when  they  parted, 
She  all  faith,  he  broken-hearted ; 
She,  the  weaker,  raised  by  patience, 
He,  the  stronger,  bowed  by  woe: 
And  her  gentle  heart  is  beating 
As  it  did  at  that  last  meeting, 
When  her  lover  brought  his  greeting 
And  she  told  him  she  must  go — 
Go  across  the  frowning  mountains, 
For  what  cause  she  must  not  know 
Since  her  father  willed  it  so. 

"By  that  God  that  bends  above  thee," 
Low  he  answered,  "I  do  love  thee, 
And  my  love  shall  teach  me  patience, 
And  my  patience  make  thee  mine. 


And  Other  Poems.  19 

Since  it  must  be,  I'll  not  grieve  thee 
With  my  sorrow,  but  will  leave  thee 
Till  that  day  when  I  receive  thee 
From  thy  father,  to  inshrine 
Thee  within  my  distant  castle, 
Where  the  climbing  ivy  vine 
Roots  itself  in  limpid  Rhine." 


Then  he  kist  her  hands  and  vestment, 
And  one  moment  in  caressment 
Touched  her  hair  and  added  gently, 
"Heart  of  heart,  till  then  farewell !" 
So  these  hapless  lovers  parted, 
Trembling,  if  not  broken  hearted, 
All  their  plans  and  gladness  thwarted 
By  that  vision  that  befell 
lone  walking  through  the  meadows 
Rapt  in  love's  all-dreamy  spell 
That  had  seen,  but  seen  not  well. 

Now  she  dreams  of  that  sweet  meeting 

In  the  future — and  its  greeting — 

When  her  lover,  vindicated, 

Shall  again  look  on  her  face, 

Kiss  her  hands  and  flowing  vestment, 

Touch  her  hair  in  sweet  caressment, 

And  one  moment  in  redressment 


20  lone, 

Hold  her  in  his  pure  embrace, 
Saying,  "Love,  the  time  was  dreary, 
Yet  Timers  footsteps  I'd  retrace 
To  live  o'er  this  moment's  grace." 

And — all  love  and  faith — she  calleth 
From  her  sleep — "Whate'er  befalleth, 
I  will  never  leave  thee,  Bertrand, 
Surely,  never  leave  thee  more! 
I  believed  thee,  Bertrand,  ever; 
I  will  doubt  thy  honor  never; 
Nor  my  father  now  can  sever 
Thee  from  me,  though  him  I  adore ! 
I  will  follow  where  thou  leadest, 
Though  the  lightning  hurtles  o'er 
And  the  deep  beneath  doth  roar  I" 

At  the  threshold  kneels  the  Master, 

Like  a  form  in  alabaster, 

Like  a  cold  and  marble  figure 

In  the  attitude  of  prayer; 

But  a  living  heart  is  beating 

In  his  bosom,  still  repeating, 

"Christ  have  mercy !"  and  entreating 

Him  to  hearken  and  to  spare — 

Spare  the  gentle  lady  lone, 

In  His  mercy  and  His  care, 

Of  a  woe  too  great  to  bear. 


And  Other  Poems.  21 

But  the  silence  being  broken 
By  these  words  in  deep  sleep  spoken, 
To  his  feet  the  Master  rises, 
Troubled,  like  a  father  moved. 
"She  is  with  him  in  her  dreaming, 
With  her  Love !  her  mind  is  scheming 
Of  a  better  day,  and  teeming 
With  his  innocence  approved ! 
All  her  being  bends  toward  him, 
All  her  thoughts  are  interwoved 
With  this  Bertrand  whom  she  loved ! 

"This  is  wormwood  to  the  bitter ! 
Gall  to  wormwood ! — 'twill  unfit  her 
For  all  hope  and  consolation, 
For  all  trust  in  heaven's  grace! 
With  his  love  she  is  infected 
Deeper  than  my  mind  suspected, 
Deeper  than  her  heart  reflected, 
Mirrored  in  her  gentle  face: — 
He  is  dearer  than  her  father, 
Dearer  than  her  whole  dear  race, 
Since  she  loves  him  in  disgrace ! 

"Christ,  prepare  her  for  the  morning 
By  prophetic  dreams  of  warning, 
In  a  dream  prepare  her  spirit 
For  the  bitter  waking  time!" — 


22  lone, 

But  all  night  she  dreams  of  gladness, 
Of  sweet  music  charming  sadness, 
And  of  laughter  without  madness, 
And  of  wedding  hells  that  chime; 
And  she  dreams  not  she  is  dreaming, 
As  she  smells  the  dewy  thyme 
In  her  own  warm  native  clime. 


Now  the  Stranger  hath  uprisen, 
And  the  castle  seems  a  prison 
To  his  eager  restless  spirit, 
Still  impatient  to  be  gone. 
"Haste,"  he  whispers  to  the  Master, 
"Break  to  her  this  sad  disaster, 
Though  thy  story  must  o'ercast  her 
And  make  midnight  of  the  dawn: 
We  have  little  time  to  linger, 
But  by  noon  must  be  withdrawn, 
Though  we've  much  to  think  upon.3 

"I  will  join  you,"  thus  the  other, 
"On  this  journey,  as  thy  brother 
In  the  cause  of  gentle  lone, 
As  thy  friend  in  every  need. 
Have  ye  patience,  for  'tis  better 
That  I  school  her  ere  the  letter 
Is  surrendered  that  must  fetter 


And  Other  Poems.  23 

Her  to  sorrow  cruel  indeed — 
I  will  school  her  gentle  spirit, 
Calm  her  heart  that  fain  must  bleed, 
Then  leave  her  alone  to  read. 

"All  alone,  for  it  is  better 
That  alone  she  read  this  letter 
Which  was  written  by  her  father 
In  an  hour  of  deep  distress: 
And  I'll  also  be  attorney 
To  prepare  her  for  this  journey, 
For  this  unexpected  journey 
To  her  fa-ther,  comfortless. 
Stay  ye  here,  and  pray  the  heavens 
Smile  upon  my  cause  and  bless 
What  we  ask  with  all  success/' 

lone,  at  her  casement  standing, 

Hears  a  footstep  on  the  landing, 

Hears  the  Master  whom  she  honors 

Hasting  to  her  chamber  door. 

At  the  threshold  now  she  meets  him, 

And  with  subdued  welcome  greets  him — 

Humble  welcome — and  entreats  him 

Enter  in — her  greeting  o'er. 

To  her  window  now  she  leads  him, 

Looking  out  upon  the  shore 

She  shall  look  on  but  twice  more. 


24  lone, 

"Look,"  she  saith,  "a  hope  hath  perished, 
One,  perhaps,  that  still  is  cherished." 
Here  she  points  unto  a  vessel 
Wrecked  upon  the  stormy  reef. 
"Yea,  dear  lady,"  thus  the  Master, 
"Now  ye  look  on  stern  disaster ; 
But  unkinder,  deeper,  vaster, 
Than  the  sea  is  human  grief ! 
Yet  the  tempest  troubled  ocean. 
Is  but  as  a  whirling  leaf 
Unto  Him  who  gives  relief! 

"Let  it  teach  thy  gentle  spirit 
That  thyself  must  pain  inherit, 
Since  these  lives  were  not  exempted 
That  the  storm  hath  overthrown: 
And,  if  thou  hast  ere  known  sorrow, 
From  this  wreck  the  lesson  borrow — 
Schooling  thee  through  pain  and  horror — 
That  thyself  art  not  alone 
In  thy  grief,  but  others  suffer, 
At  their  hearts  a  weight  of  stone, 
Heavier  with  every  groan." 

"I  perceive  it,"  saith  the  maiden, 
"And  my  heart  is  heavy  laden; 
Yea,  that  sorrow  is  most  common, 
This  indeed  I  understood/' 


And  Other  Poems.  25 

"So  the  heavens  have  ordained  it," 

Thus  the  Master,  "Yet  have  strained  it 

Through  God's  mercy,  and  have  rained  it 

On  our  spirits  for  our  good, 

For  'tis  sorrow  more  than  gladness 

Teaches  men  a  brotherhood 

Closer  than  the  ties  of  blood." 


Now  the  Master,  turning  slowly 

From  the  casement,  utters  lowly, 

"lone,  since  thou  hast  known  sorrow, 

Thou  may  knowest  how  to  bear; — 

To  be  patient,  not  contending 

With  thy  soul,  nor  apprehending 

That  the  evil  is  past  mending, 

Or  is  reason  for  despair; 

To  abide  in  faith  and  meeknesi, 

As  becoming  in  an  heir 

To  yon  Heaven's  love  and  cart. 

"Knowing  those  that  lose  not  Heaven 
Lose  but  that  which  hath  been  given 
For  a  few  brief  fleeting  seasons, 
'And  that  Death  eventually  takes." 
Here  the  Master  meekly  ceases, 
But  no  hope  his  bosom  eases, 
And  his  fearfulness  increases, 


26  lone, 

For  a  pallid  dread  awakes 
In  the  face  of  gentle  lone, 
'And  her  startled  bosom  quakes 
!As  the  blood  her  brow  forsakes. 

Pale  she  looks  upon  her  teacher, 
Whose  gray  lifted  eyes  beseech  her 
To  have  patience,  hope  and  courage 
'Gainst  the  sorrow  that  has  come : 
Pale  she  looks  upon  the  ocean, 
On  the  wreck  in  restless  motion, 
And  a  sad  and  stern  prenotion 
Leaves  her  fearful  spirit  dumb: 
Pale  as  cold  forsaken  marble 
Has  fair  lone  now  become 
'Gainst  a  time  of  martyrdom. 

"Courage,  lone ;  half  our  sorrow 
From  our  fearful  hearts  we  borrow; 
Courage,  lone,  for  the  noble 
Need  fear  nothing  but  their  fear ! 
?Tis  not  death  that  now  assails  thee 
In  this  hour  when  gladness  fails  thee, 
And  a  bitter  duty  hails  thee, 
In  which  thou  must  persevere; 
But  that  error  is  triumphant 
Over  him  thou  dost  revere 
With  a  daughter's  heart  sincere.* 


And  Other  Poems.  27 

Now  the  Master,  meek  and  lowly, 
Tells  the  Stranger's  story  wholly, 
And  to  lone,  pale  and  trembling, 
Gives  the  letter  he  hath  by; 
And  from  fearful  apprehension, 
From  a  sad  and  stern  presension, 
lone  passes — cold  with  tension — 
To  the  truth  without  a  cry ; 
Learns  her  father's  cruel  position, 
Which,  to  mend,  her  Love  must  die, 
And  in  cold  obstruction  lie. 

"I  am  ready ;  thus  bespeak  me 
To  this  friend  that  fain  would  seek  me/' 
Answers  lone,  and  the  Master 
With  these  words  his  leave  doth  take. 
Now  pale  lone  reads  the  letter, 
Reads  the  loving,  pleading  letter 
From  her  father,  which  must  fetter 
Bands  that  angels  cannot  break, — 
Fetter  bands  about  her  spirit, 
For  her  aged  father's  sake, 
That  love's  angels  cannot  break. 

Now  upon  her  knees  she  bendetH, 
Asking  that  her  breathings  endeth, 
Craving  that  which  every  spirit 
Hath  once  craved  of  heaven — death! 


28  lone, 

That  one  prayer  that  ceasas  never, 
But  forever  and  forever, 
Though  a  thousand  creeds  dissever, 
Rises  upward  without  death; 
Prayer  of  all  and  prayer  for  all  time 
While  this  mortal  frame  holds  breath, 
The  eternal  prayer  for — death ! 

Now  she  rises  from  her  kneeling, 

Shame's  hot  blush  upon  her  stealing, 

Saying,  "Father,  0  forgive  me, 

I  must  live  to  rescue  thee ! 

Unto  me  alone  is  given, 

By  that  mercy  lodged  in  heaven, 

Power  to  make  these  great  odds  even 

And  to  work  thy  liberty ; 

I  alone  can  charm  back  honor 

On  thy  gray  hairs,  and  to  me 

Hath  been  given  life's  one  key! 

"But,  0  Bertrand,  0  my  lover, 

It  is  I  that  must  discover 

That  wild  vision  of  the  meadow — 

Point  thee  out  to  death  and  shame ! 

Thou,  that  used  to  love  and  prize  me,- 

And  thy  love  did  still  suffice  me, — 

Now  must  evermore  despise  me 


And  Other  Poems.  29 

And  adjudge  me  not  the  same; 
Thou  must  think  me  false,  inconstant, 
When  I  publicly  exclaim 
'Gainst  thy  ever-gracious  name ! 

"  'Twas  not  thee  I  saw  that  morning 

But  a  vision  of  forewarning; 

With  thine  own  blood  thou  wast  dabbled, 

Blood  that  I  myself  must  spill ! 

Not  thee,  Bertrand,  but  a  vision, 

And  I  merit  all  derision 

That,  in  trembling  indecision, 

And  in  weakness  of  the  will, 

I  made  known  unto  another 

That  I  saw  thee  near  that  hill 

Where  assassins  had  wrought  ill ! 

"Yet,  0  Love,  in  my  unfitness, 

I  must  be  my  father's  witness, 

Swear  I  saw  thee,  Love,  that  morning 

Where  the  murdered  man  was  found ! — 

So  it  seemed — yet  'twas  but  seeming, 

But  the  folly  of  my  dreaming — 

Of  a  dream  past  all  redeeming, — 

Or  a  vision  to  confound ! 

I  must  swear  to  an  appearance 

And  leave  Heaven  to  expound 

That  'twas  such  to  all  around ! 


30  lone, 

"Would  to  God  I  then  had  perished, 
Or  thy  love  I  ne'er  had  cherished ! 
Would  thy  hand  had  gathered  flowers 
For  my  grave,  not  for  my  breast ! 
Would  that  lilies  sprang  above  me 
That  thou,  Bertrand,  still  would  love  me. 
With  that  early  love  still  love  me, 
While  I  lie  at  perfect  rest ! 
0,  that  I  had  died  in  summer 
And  thy  gentle  step  had  prest 
To  my  grave  among  the  blest !" 

With  these  mournful  words  she  ceases, 
But  no  tear  her  sorrow  eases ; 
'Gainst  the  wall  she  leans  her  forhead, 
Silent  as  a  thing  that's  dead. 
All  her  life  before  her  rises, 
All  its  joy  and  sweet  surprises, 
All  its  grief  and  sacrifices,— 
All,  before  her  soul  is  spread: 
All  its  shadow,  all  its  beauty, 
Pain  that  lingered,  joys  that  fled, 
Doubts  that  grieved,  hope  that  misled. 

Meantdme  hath  the  Master  carried 
To  that  Stranger  who  hath  tarried 
In  his  chamber,  Tone's  message 
And  delivered  it  twice  o'er. 


And  Other  Poems.  31 

"If  ye've  gold,  prepare  to  spend  it," 

Thus  the  Stranger,  "or  to  lend  it ; 

Or,  if  ye  cannot  extend  it, 

Friends  must  stead  thee  from  their  store ; 

For  the  sea.  hath  stol'n  my  fortune 

On  the  reef  beyond  the  shore, 

And  the  sea  doth  not  restore." 


"  'Tis  my  time  for  exercising 
Friendship's  bounty,  and  devising 
Means  of  travel/'  thus  the  Master, 
"And  my  fortune  is  not  mean. 
This  much  will  I  lend  to  heaven, 
For  to  me  much  hath  been  given ; 
More  than  I  can  e'er  make  even 
Many  times  I  have  foreseen. 
Be  not  fearful  for  this  journey — 
We  shall  sail  'Hispania's  Queeri.' 
Ere  the  noonday  sun  is  seen." 

So  'tis  wished,  so  prosecuted, 
So  the  journey  instituted; 
Home  sails  lone  to  her  father, 
Leaving  joy  and  youth  behind ! 
Homeward  journeys  with  the  Master 
And  the  Stranger;  fast  and  faster 
Sailing  on  toward  disaster, 


32  lone, 

In  the  sails  a  mighty  wind ! 
Home  by  Lisbon  and  Gibraltar, 
lone  sails  with  fearful  mind, 
Led  by  Fortune — false  and  blind ! 


PAKT   II. 

In  yon  prison  cell  is  lying, 
Of  dishonor  slowly  dying, 
One  whose  name  erewhile  was  noble 
And  thrice  honored  by  the  State. 
Stone,  beneath,  above,  around  him, 
Rears  its  columns  to  confound  him 
Where  an  evil  time  hath  bound  him, 
Looking  on  with  brow  of  hate. — 
All  his  honors  have  passed  from  him, 
All  his  friends  have  proved  ingrate 
Save  the  few  that  strive  and  wait. 

He  is  stript  of  Fortune's  lending, 
Naked  with  the  blast  contending ; 
On  his  white  hairs  shame  hath  fallen, 
Shame  his  neighbors'  eyes  have  seen. 
Age,  that  should  have  been  a  blessing, 
Filled  with  honor's  dear  caressing, 
Hath  been  cursed  beyond  redressing, 


And  Other  Poems.  33 

Made  ignoble,  harsh,  and  mean: 
And  he  breathes  the  air  of  dungeons 
Who  should  breathe  the  pure  serene 
Of  the  meadows  lush  and  green. 

This  is  lone's  father,  dying 

In  the  cell  where  he  is  lying, 

Calling  on  his  God  to  witness 

That  his  soul  is  innocent: 

And  his  mighty  heart  is  broken, 

And  his  painful  words  are  spoken 

In  such  whispers  as  betoken 

That  his  life  is  almost  spent. — 

Him  the  law  is  sacrificing 

As  a  guilty  instrument 

In  what  seemed  a  foul  event. 

Veiled  corruption  hath  pursued  him 
For  a  season  and  subdued  him 
To  the  law's  blind  inquisition, 
To  dishonor,  grief,  and  shame. 
By  a  friend  he  still  mistrusted — 
One  that  for  his  life  hath  lusted  I—- 
Charge of  murder  hath  been  thrusted 
Secretly  upon  his  name, 
And  the  law  hath  sate  in  judgment 
And  on  him  affixed  the  blame 
Who  is  guiltless  of  the  same. 


34  lone, 

Yet  one  hope  there  is  remaining, 
One  dear  hope  his  life  sustaining, 
And  that  hope  is  that  his  daughter 
Will  renew  his  liberty. 
She  was  witness  to  a  vision, 
To  a  true,  if  damned  vision, 
Which  must  change  the  law's  decision, 
Change  the  law^s  corrupt  decree : — 
She  will  publish  that  young  Bertrand 
Slew  the  Noble  by  the  sea, 
And  her  father  shall  go  free. 

Now  the  old  man  falters  lowly 
To  the  stones,  "The  Lord  is  holy; 
He  will  set  me  free  in  two  worlds — 
In  this  one  and  in  His  own: 
He  will  send  my  daughter  to  me 
That  those  foemen  who  pursue  me 
And  seek  falsely  to  undo  me 
Shall  be  wholly  overthrown: 
In  her  hands  He  will  lodge  comfort 
That  shall  presently  atone 
For  this  prison  house  of  stone. 

"Is  there  storm  upon  the  water 
That  ye  hear  not  of  my  daughter  ?" 
Now  he  whispers  to  his  gaoler 
Who  hath  brought  him  bitter  food. 


And  Other  Poems.  35 

"Thou  hast  more  need  of  devotion 
Than  of  question,  for  the  ocean 
From  its  center  is  in  motion !" 
Thus  the  gaoler  in  wild  mood : — 
"Trouble  heaven  with  thy  questions 
And  not  feeling  flesh  and  blood: 
Die,  and  ask  it  of  hell's  brood !" 

"0,  my  God,"  the  old  man  falters, 
"Prison  walls  all  nature  alters, 
Till  the  stones  rise  up  against  me 
That  are  laden  with  my  tears ! 
And  my  daughter  will  forsake  me — 
Hasten  but  to  overtake  me 
Ere  I  pass  away  and  make  me 
Cause  for  mockery  and  jeers! 
All  hath  altered;  e'en  the  heavens 
Send  a  priest  that  doubts  and  sneers 
And  heaps  curses  on  my  ears!" 

"Hush,  ye  fool !"  the  gaoler  mutters, 
"  'Tis  thy  madness  now  that  utters 
'Gainst  the  holy  church  such  treason 
As  may  some  time  cost  thee  dear. 
See!  the  holy  father's  hasting 
Unto  thee  the  Lord  is  chast'ing, 
And  in  treason  thou  art  wasting 


36  lone, 

Breath  thou  needst  to  set  thee  clear. 
Fear  the  Lord  and  shut  thy  mouth  then  ! — 
Would  that  mouth  were  a  third  ear 
That  it  could  not  speak,  but  hear !" 

Now  a  cowled  form  enters  slowly 

Like  a  pious  priest  and  holy, 

But  'fore  such  a  damned  spirit 

Cain  had  blushed  and  cried  out  "shame !" 

'Tis  no  priest,  but  the  betrayer 

Of  the  pris'ner,  and  inveigher 

'Gainst  his  honor;  'tis  the  slayer 

Of  the  Noble:  and  his  aim 

Is  to  feed  an  ancient  hatred 

'Gainst  the  prisoner's  fair  name 

Overtopping  his  in  fame. 

Once  he  sought  a  high  position 
Which  might  tempt  a  duke's  ambition, 
But  the  prisoner  outplanned  him 
By  his  native  strength  of  mind : 
Crost  in  hope  he  sought  to  smother 
All  his  hatred  for  the  other, 
Who  had  loved  him  as  a  brother, — 
Sought  to  make  the  victor  blind 
Till  he  found  him  in  his  power, 
Then  he  purposed  to  be  kind, 
Kind  as  racks  that  rend  and  bind! 


And  Other  Poems.  37 

As  he  enters  like  a  presence 
Of  some  higher,  purer  essence, 
From  the  dungeon  hastes  the  gaoler 
And  his  footsteps  die  away. 
"Prisoner,"  he  saith  slowly, 
"Thou  art  stained,  the  Church  is  holy, 
She  is  proud  and  thou  art  lowly, — 
Wilt  thou  longer  then  delay? 
Wilt  thou  keep  confession  waiting 
Till  the  Church  shall  cease  to  pray 
For  thy  soul  in  its  dismay? 

"Rome  awaits  but  thy  repentance 
And  confession,  then  her  sentence 
Shall  be  lifted  from  thy  spirit 
And  thy  soul  need  fear  no  ills. 
But,  0  fool !  beware  Rome's  turning, 
Fear  the  hour  of  her  spurning, — 
She  is  patient  with  all  yearning, 
Patient  as  her  seven  hills, 
But  her  patience  hath  an  ending 
As  the  patience  of  the  hills, 
And  this  ending  is  what  kills. 

"Kills  the  soul  that  would  find  heaven, 
As  the  crooked  bolts  of  levin 
Kill  the  body  and  consume  it : — 
Such  hath  Rome  the  power  to  do! 


38  lone, 

Better  thou  wert  not  created 
Than  thy  soul  for  aye  be  hated, 
Cursed  and  excommunicated 
By  the  mother  Church  and  true ! 
Rome  stands  waiting;  in  her  bosom 
There  is  lightning  and  is  dew ! — 
Which,  0  prisoner,  choose  you?" 


"Cease  thy  counsel  and  chastising," 

Thus  the  prisoner,  uprising; — 

"I  am  greater  than  thy  orders, 

A  free  soul  is  more  than  Rome! 

By  that  God  that  watches  o'er  me 

I  am  guiltless!  then  restore  me 

To  that  peace  from  whence  they  tore  me, 

To  the  quietness  of  my  home: 

Every  stone  knows  I  am  guiltless 

That  upholds  this  prison  dome! — 

Then  restore  me  to  my  home. 

"Yet,  0  holy  father,  listen— 
And  that  Rome  herself  did  christen 
Me  in  youth  is  not  more  certain 
Than  these  things  whereof  I'll  speak: 
Certain  as  my  own  baptism, 
Certain  as  thy  Catholicism, 
Certain  as  the  holy  chrism, 


And  Other  Poems.  39 

Are  these  things  whereof  I'll  speak. 
But  draw  nearer,  holy  father, 
For  my  voice  is  strangely  weak ; 
Draw  ye  nearer,  cheek  to  cheek." 

Nearer  draws  the  false  Corambis, 
Nearer  draws  the  cowled  Corambis, 
To  the  other  saying  sternly, 
"Truth  is  coming ;  let  it  come ! 
Blessed,  if,  ere  my  departure, 
I  can  free  thee  from  this  torture, 
From  this  almost  hopeless  torture 
Which  has  made  thy  spirit  dumb; 
Blessed,  if  my  lips  can  ease  thee 
Ere  thy  body  shall  succumb 
To  its  fearful  martyrdom." 

"There  is  storm  upon  the  water 
And  ye  may  not  see  my  daughter," 
Thus  true  prisoner,  "for  lone 
May  be  lost  upon  the  sea: 
Should  this  be,  then  I  must  borrow 
From  her  death  eternal  sorrow, 
For  I  fear  upon  the  morrow 
That  my  life  shall  cease  to  be, 
And  should  lone  die  before  me 
Who  will  speak  a  word  for  me? 
Who  will  set  my  good  name  free? 


4O  lone, 

"Who? — unless  before  I  perish 
I  should  publish  what  I  cherish 
As  a  secret  of  my  daughter's, 
Which  her  love  forbid  rne  tell. 
Who? — unless  thyself  will  hear  me, 
And,  in  living  after,  clear  me 
That  the  world  shall  still  revere  me 
And  not  deem  my  soul  in  hell; 
That  my  good  name  shall  live  after 
And  my  spirit's  passing  bell 
Be  not  honor's  fearful  knell." 

"Speak,"  Corambis  answers  lowly, 
"I  will  serve  thee,  serve  thee  wholly; 
Pour  into  my  ear  thy  secret, 
From  my  lips  shall  comfort  fall. 
What  is  this  thou  hast  kept  hidden, 
And  thy  daughter  hath  forbidden — 
By  her  voiceless  love  forbidden — 
Ye  to  tell  in  part  or  all  ? 
Dost  thou  know  who  slew  the  Noble 
By  that  meadow's  flinty  wall, 
While  the  devil  stood  in  call?" 

"Yea !  and  I  have  kept  it  hidden 
As  my  daughter's  love  hath  bidden, 
Thinking  that  the  law  would  free  me 
And  the  guilty  not  be  found; 


And  Other  Poems.  41 

But  the  hope  hath  passed  probation 
And  hath  failed:  so  Rome's  legation 
Shall  undo  my  condemnation 
And  the  guilty  shall  be  bound. 
I  will  suffer  shame  no  longer, 
Nor  through  idle  hope  compound 
With  an  evil  most  profound. 

"Draw  ye  nearer:  I'll  discover 
In  what  manner  lone's  lover 
On  the  morning  of  the  murder 
By  my  child  herself  was  seen." 
This  he  docs,  moreover  saying, 
"Bertrand's  guilty  of  the  slaying, 
Guilty  of  that  Lord's  betraying, 
And,  0  priest,  my  hands  are  clean; 
He  is  guilty;  let  him  answer; 
I  no  longer  choose  to   screen 
Him  from  law,  or  come  between." 

"Ha!"  Corambis  cries,  uprising, 
"Thou  deservest  canonizing 
For  thy  friendship  and  thy  patience, 
And  I  love  thee  for  the  same. 
Come,  rejoice !  for  if  thou  perish 
Both  thy  name  and  bones  I'll  cherish, 
So  thou  needst  not  leave  this  garish 


42  lone, 

Day  of  life  with  fear  of  shame; 
Thou  shalt  leave  a  voice  behind  thee 
To  cry  honor  on  thy  name 
And  give  thee  enduring  fame." 

But  behind  his  cowl  he  mutters, 
"This  is  truth  the  old  man  utters, 
And  I'll  publish  it  for  profit 
Should  he  die  with  it  unsaid, 
For,  by  heaven !  but  this  morning 
I  received  a  hint  of  warning 
From  Montero — curse  his  scorning! — 
Laying  this  murder  on  my  head, 
And,  unless  his  eyes  be  hoodwinked 
And  his  cunning  thoughts  misled, 
I'll  be  numbered  with  the  dead." 

Now  he  adds,  aloud  and  cheerful, 
"Prisoner,  be  thou  not  fearful, 
I  release  thee  and  absolve  thee 
From  all  past  and  future  crime ; 
And  I'll  do  as  ye  have  bidden — 
Publish  what  thou  still  hast  hidden, — 
Which  concealment  should  be  chidden,- 
Give  thee  whole  unto  the  time : 
I  will  live  to  shield  thy  honor, 
Lift  thy  name  from  scandal's  slime, 
And  make  it  again  sublime." 


And  Other  Poems.  43 

With  these  mocking  words  he  hurries 
From  the  cell.     The  prisoner  buries 
His  white  hairs  within  his  mantle 
Moaning  that  his  days  are  o'er; 
And,  upon  the  stones  reclining, 
Sees  in  thought  the  bright  sun  shining 
On  his  home,,  and  sweet  buds  twining 
'Round  the  lattice  by  the  door; 
Stands  again  upon  the  threshold, 
In  his  ears  the  distant  roar 
Of  the  surf  upon  the  shore. 

Up  the  sunny  path  advances 
lone  with  her  tender  glances, 
Singing  of  the  vales  of  Flora 
Sweet  in  old  Provengal  lay : 
After  her,  from  field  and  bower 
Washed  at  morn  in  golden  shower, 
Every  April  wakened  flower 
Bends  the  beauty  of  its  spray, 
And  its  fragrance  wafts  toward  her 
As  if  she  were  gentle  May 
Moving  on  her  gracious  way. 

From  this  reverie  awaking, 
All  his  heart  with  sorrow  aching, 
Now  the  father  in  the  darkness 
Stretches  out  his  yearning  arms : 


44  lone, 

"0,  my  God,  thou'll  not  bereave  me 
Of  my  child,  nor  she  deceive  me 
And  in  this  cold  dungeon  leave  me 
Where  no  sunlight  shines  or  warms ! 
She  was  ever  true  and  tender 
And  once  more  within  these  arms 
I  shall  fold  her,  safe  from  storms! 


"No,  ah  no;  she's  gone  forever, 
Gone  forever  and  forever, 
Lost  upon  the  troubled  waters 
As  these  long  delays  attest! 
And  my  arms  shall  ne'er  enfold  her, 
Never,  nevermore  enfold  her, 
Nor  my  eyes  again  behold  her; 
She  is  gone  where  none  molest! — 
I  have  outlived  truth  and  honor, 
And  my  child  I  loved  the  best 
Is  before  me  gone  to  rest!" 

"No,  my  father,  thou'rt  mistaken — 
I'm  not  dead  nor  thou  forsaken ; 
I  am  living,  I,  thy  daughter, 
Living,  and  have  brought  thee  peace! 
So,  dear  father,  be  not  daunted, 
By  no  spirit  art  thou  haunted, 
Nor  this  dungeon  is  enchanted, 


And  Other  Poems.  45 

I  am  real  and  bring  release: 
Lo,  I  touch  thy  hand,  my  father! — 
Let  thy  doubts  and.  tremblings  cease, 
I,  thy  daughter,  come  with  peace." 

As  the  silence  now  is  broken 

By  these  tender  words  outspoken, 

To  his  feet  the  father  rises 

With  a  startled,  broken  cry. 

In  his  arms  he  clasps  his  daughter, 

Clasps  his  faithful,  gentle  daughter, 

Dearer  than  he  ever  thought  her, 

Bright  as  love  may  glorify; 

Clasps  her  to  his  straining  bosom, 

Saying,  "Lord,  now  let  me  die 

While  my  daughter  is  still  by!" 

"Dear,  my  father,  on  the  morrow 

Thou  shalt  bid  farewell  to  sorrow, 

Yet  not  bid  farewell,  0  father, 

Or  to  life  or  liberty. 

Thou  art  talked  of  now  in  heaven 

By  good  angels  that  are  given 

Power  such  as  oft  hath  riven 

Gates  of  brass  and  set  men  free: 

Seraphs   are   this   night  impatient 

For  the  gracious  morn  to  be 

When  from  hence  they  shall  lea.4  ttiee," 


46  lone, 

"0,  my  child,  thou  little  knowest 
How  I'm  numbered  with  the  lowest, 
How  my  works  are  all  forgotten, 
And  my  patience  made  my  shame: 
Little  knowest  how  detraction 
Hath  set  in  with  harsh  exaction, 
How  the  forked  tongue  of  faction 
Hath  envenomed  my  good  name; 
Little  knowest  how  I'm  fallen, 
Fallen  without  guilt  or  blame, 
Fallen — and  who  shall  reclaim!" 

"Yet,  my  father,  I  can  reason 
Of  the  cure,  if  not  the  treason — 
Of  the  remedy  I've  knowledge 
Though  not  knowledge  of  the  wrong. 
Yet  I  partly  am  acquainted 
With  thy  fall :  my  heart  hath  fainted 
Many  times  since  it  hath  painted 
Thee  so  deeply  grieved  and  long. 
0,  believe  me,   I   have  sounded 
All  the  fearful  depth  of  wrong 
Since  I  came  these  stones  among." 

"0,  sweet  lone,  kneel  ye  by  me 
And  with  comfort  fortify  me: 
I  will  thank  the  stones  beneath  me 
thou  talk  of  being  free. 


And  Other  Poems.  47 

Shall  I  see  the  sun  in  heaven 

Once  again  ere  I  am  given 

Unto  death?     Shall  shame  be  dr'vea 

From  my  sight,  rebuked  by  thee  ? 

Shall  they  clothe  me  with  that  honor, 

With   that   former   dignity 

Which  fell  off  with  liberty?" 


"Dear,  my  father,  do  not  tremble — 
Thinkest  thou  I  would  dissemble? 
Thou  shalt  see  and  seeing  answer 
'It  is  good — good  as  can  be  '* 
I  have  come  upon  this  journey 
As  thy  witness  and  attorney, 
(Heaven  be  my  own  attorney!) 
And  I  bring  thee  liberty: — 
Surely,  father,  they'll  believe  me, 
Though,  indeed,  I'm  kin  to  thee, 
And,  believing,  set  thee  free." 

Thus  they  whisper,  one  the  other, 
Never  dreaming  that  another, 
That  Corambis  at  the  threshold 
Listens  to  their  every  word; 
Never  dreaming  that  their  meeting, 
That  their  happy,  sacred  greeting, 
That  their  very  pulses'  beating, 


48  lone, 

By  a  foe  is  overheard: 
Thinking  that  the  heavens  only 
Know  how  deeply  they  are  stirred, 
Not  a  foe  by  hatred  spurred. 

Now,  beside  the  pallet  kneeling, 
lone,  with  her  soft  hand  stealing 
Through  her  father's,  whispers  lowly 
Words  of  love  and  comfort  sweet. 
Of  her  journey  o'er  the  ocean, 
Of  her  spirit's  deep  emotion, 
Of  her  hopes  and  her  devotion, 
Whispers  lowly  at  his  feet; 
But,  as  yet,  speaks  not  of  Bertrand, 
In  whose  cause  she  shall  entreat 
With  a  woman's  fervid  heat. 

To  her  words  her  father  listens, 

And  each  sunken  eye  now  glistens 

With  the  kindling  light  of  gladness, 

Hope,  and  waking  ecstasy. 

O'er  her  face  he  still  is  bending, 

His  cold  breath  and  her  warm  blending, 

Trusting  still,  still  apprehending, 

That  her  love  shall   set  him   free; 

Hanging  on  her  words  intently 

As  if  they  were  that  decree 

Giving  him  his  liberty. 


And  Other  Poems.  49 

Thus  conversing,  lone  slowly 

Leads  to  that  which  claims  her  wholly — 

To  the  vision  of  the  meadow 

And  her  lover's  part  therein: 

Saying,  "Father,  for  that  vision 

Which  must  change  the  law's  decision, 

Why,  indeed,  'twas  but  a  vision, 

To  remembered  dreams  akin; 

But  a  dream  except  in  outcome, 

Such  as  idle  fancies  spin 

Or  in  fear  have  origin. 

"Once  before  at  early  morning, 

Suddenly,  and  without  warning, 

I  perceived  the  noble  Bertrand 

Struggling  in  the  very  ground; 

But  when  I  had  wildly  hurried 

To  the  spot  where  he  seemed  buried, 

Upward  to  his  shoulders  buried, 

'Twas  an  idle  dream  I  found, 

For  it  faded  as  a  vision, 

And  I  fell  into  a  swound 

With  accustomed  sights  around." 

To  his  feet  her  father  staggers 
As  if  she  had  spoken  daggers; 
To  his  feet  he  feebly  rises 
From  his  face  a  brightness  fled, 


50  lone, 

Like  when  some  rude  spirit  dashes 
Waters  on  bright  fire  that  Hashes 
And  one  moment  all  is  ashes, 
Cold  and  still  and  dull  and  dead. 
For  a  while  he  feebly  swayeth, 
Then,  with  one  hand  to  his  head, 
Sinks  upon  his  narrow  bed. 


lone,  to  her  feet  uprising, 
Marks  this  change  past  all  disguising, 
Comprehends  the  fearful  reason 
And  continues,  wrung  with  pain: 
"Father,  dost  thou  fear  this  vision 
Will  make  light  the  other  vision, 
That  the  law  in  its  decision 
Will  receive  me  with  disdain — 
Will  adjudge  that  I  am  troubled 
By  some  sickness  of  the  brain 
And  my  testimony  vain?" 

"Thou  hast  said :     I'm  ruined  forever," 

Thus  the  prisoner,  "and  never 

Shall  I  look  upon  the  morrow 

Or  go  forth  to  liberty ! 

There  is  naught  but  death  remaining 

Since  my  good  name's  past  regaining, 

And  my  freedom  past  attaining; 


And  Other  Poems.  51 

Naught  but  death  as  ye  may  see! 
Thou'll  be  judged  an  idle  dreamer 
In  the  currents  of  decree, 
And  thou  canst  not  set  me  free !" 

"Yea,  my  father;  and  I  tremble, 
For  my  soul  dare  not  dissemble — 
Hiding  from  the  law  this  vision 
That  the  other  be  not  vain. 
It  were  murder  to  conceal  it, 
For — thou  knowest — not  to  reveal  it, 
But  within  my  heart  to  seal  it, 
Would  give  credit  to  my  brain, 
And  that  vision  of  the  meadow 
Then  would  seem  a  flawless  chain, 
Not  an  idle  dream  profane." 

Now  the  father  knows  temptation: 
(Let  his  wrong  be  palliation!) 
lone  must  conceal  that  vision 
Of  her  lover  in  the  ground. 
"I  have  suffered  for  this  other," — 
Thinks  the  prisoner; — "a  brother 
Not  more  freely — nay,  a  mother 
Not  more  freely  had  been  bound: 
Let  him,  then,  in  like  repay  me, 
In  like  suffering  compound 
For  this  deep  and  grievous  wound. 


5*  lone, 

"lone,"  thus  begins  the  father, 

"There's  a  third  way—"    "Yea,  I  rather 

Choose  the  third  way,"  answers  lone, 

"And  perchance  'twill  set  thee  free. 

There's  a  third  way  and  a  better, 

Not  set  down  within  thy  letter, 

And,  for  which,  I  am  the  debtor 

To  mine  own  anxiety; 

And  that  third  way  is,  my  father, 

That  I  take  the  guilt  on  me 

Of  that  murder  by  the  sea. 

"Swear  that  I  myself  committed 
This  strange  murder  and  outwitted 
One  that  sought  to  wrong  my  honor 
As  I  crost  that  meadow  wide: 
Swear  that  on  that  fatal  morning, 
Dastardly,  and  without  warning, 
This  dead  Lord — all  honor  scorning — 
Sought  to  shame  me  and  my  pride, 
And  I  plucked  his  weapon  from  him 
Thrusting  it  into  his  side — 
So  he  sinned  and  so  he  died!" 

At  this  plan  so  unexpected, 
Deeply  is  the  heart  affected 
Of  that  father  whose  intention 
Was  to  wrong  a  guiltless  man. 


And  Other  Poems.  53 

Shame  comes  o'er  him  and  amazement, 
Shame  at  his  own  heart's  debasement, 
And  amazement,  deep  amazement, 
At  his  daughter's  daring  plan. 
With  dim  eyes  he  looks  toward  her, 
But  he  scarcely  now  can  scan 
Her  fair  features,  cold  and  wan. 


"Yea,"  continues  lone  lowly, 
"This  is  best  and  almost  holy, 
For  that  Lord  has  left  no  kindred 
And  we  cannot  harm  his  name. 
Herein  thou  wilt  be  acquitted, 
Nor  shall  Bert  rand  be  committed, 
While,  for  me, — I  but  outwitted 
One  that  sought  to  work  my  shame, 
And  what  law  will  hold  me  guilty, 
Or  what  tribunal  will  blame 
That  I  struck  what  would  defame?" 

Down  upon  his  pallet  sinking, 

Now  the  father  takes  to  thinking, 

With  a  mind  subdued  by  sickness, 

Of  his  daughter's  daring  plan. 

It  were  possible  in  reason, 

And,  though  false,  it  were  not  treason; 

It  might  free  him  for  a  season, 


54 


To  his  life  might  add  a  span; 
And  the  heavens  would  o'erlook  it 
Since  'twould  lift  a  thrice-false  ban 
And  set  free  a  guiltless  man. 

Meanwhile  lingers  that  foul  traitor 

Named  Corambis:  violater 

Of  a  privacy  that's  sacred 

And  betrayer  of  his  friends! 

In  the  darkness  he  is  slinking 

And  his  evil  mind  is  thinking 

Of  that  daughter's  plan,  and  linking 

Thought  to  thought  as  serves  his  ends; 

And  he  swears  that  Tone's  purpose 

Shall  be  crost,  for  it  offends 

And  endangers  his  own.  ends. 

"Who/-5  he  schemes,  "will  think  this  maiden 
Slew  that  mighty  Lord  of  Vedin? 
I,  with  all  my  strength  and  cunning, 
Barely  'scaped  Death's  fellowship. 
Should  she  then  this  plan  discover 
And  be  doubted,  all  is  over, 
For  that  vision  of  her  lover 
Will  lose  credit  with  one  slip; 
And,  naught  being  sure,  Montero 
May  in  time  my  secret  strip 
Naked  as  confession's  lip." 


And  Other  Poems.  55 

"Nay,  my  child,  we  must  not  borrow 
Earthly  joy  to  Heaven's  sorrow; 
Speak  the  truth  as  thou  hast  found  it, 
Leave  the  shaping  to  the  Lord: — 
For  although  a  plan  bring  gladness 
It  may  yet  be  near  to  madness, 
For  hath  God  not  willed  that  sadness 
Shall   be  ours,   though  'tis   hard? 
And  in  serving  joy — though  pleasant — 
We  may  therein  cross  the  Lord, 
Should  we  aught  of  truth  discard." 

"0,  my  father,  thou  art  nearer 

Than  the  heavens,  and  art  dearer, 

And  I  know  of  heaven,  nothing, 

But  much  of  this  love  within! 

Do  not  fail  me  through  thy  reasons — 

Truth  hath  manifold,  love,  all  seasons; 

And  a  gentle  spirit's  treasons 

Oft  are  higher  laws  'gainst  sin : 

By  this  heart  that  feels  there's  heaven, 

I  do  feel  this  deed's  akin 

To  that  heaven,  and  not  sin!" 

Thus  these  two  resume  communion, 
But  their  minds  are  at  disunion: — 
lone  pleads  the  cause  of  feeling 
And  her  father  that  of  truth. 


56  lone, 

For  a  while  they  are  divided, 
And  the  question  undecided 
Which  shall  be  the  one  that's  guided 
By  the  other — age  or  youth; 
Yet  not  long,  for  gentle  lone 
Wins  her  father  o'er  to  ruth, 
O'er  to  mercy  if  not  truth. 

Wins  him  o'er  and  wins  his  blessing 
By  her  mild  words  and  caressing, 
Wins  him  to  support  her  purpose 
Half  in  reason,  half  without. 
Smooths  his  forehead  now  and  leaves  him 
As  a  dreamless  sleep  receives  him, 
Sleep  wherein  no  sorrow  grieves  him, 
Free  as  infancy  from  doubt: 
Leaves  him  and  retires  slowly 
Shadowed  by  a  form  devout 
That  doth  darkly  leer  and  flout! 


PAET  III. 

By  yon  sea  a  youth  is  riding 
And,  with  rein  and  knee,  is  guiding 
'Gainst  the  tide  his  mettled  stallion, 
Fearful  of  the  spumous  wave. 


And  Other  Poems.  57 

In  the  rider's  face  is  seated 
Strength  and  courage  undefeated 
And  a  heart  that  ne'er  retreated 
From  his  eyes,  warm,  deep,  and  grave: 
Gold-brown  hair  around  his  temple 
Frames  a  forehead  pure  and  brave, 
Such  as  is  not  passion's  slave. 


This  is  Bertrand,  Tone's  lover, 
O'er  whom  evil  fate  shall  hover, 
Though  the  airs  be  tempered  for  him 
By  the  purple  fires  of  love. 
Of  his  lady  love's  returning 
He  hath  heard,  and  now  is  yearning — 
All  his  heart  within  him  burning — 
But  to  touch  that  lady's  glove ; 
But  to  touch  the-  flowing  vestment 
Of  fair  lone,  far  above 
Every  painting  of  a  love. 

But  his  lady  love  is  hidden 

From  his  sight,  though  he  hath  ridden 

To  her  garden  gate  and  lingered 

Full  an  hour  by  his  heart. 

She  is  nowhere  to  be  greeted, 

And  he  feels  that  he  is  cheated, 

Feels  his  love  has  been  mistreated 


lone, 

By  her  keeping  thus  apart: 
Yet  he  thinks  upon  her  sorrows, 
And  her  sorrows  now  exhort 
Him  to  patience  'spite  his  smart. 

Now  a  while  he  idly  listens 
To  the  surf  that  falls  and  glistens, 
Lapping  at  his  stallion's  forefeet 
Firmly  planted  in  the  sand: 
Now  he  turns  about  and  passes 
From  the  sea  the  sunlight  glasses 
To  the  banks  of  waving  grasses, 
Thence  to  firm,  dry,  level  land. 
He  will  post  unto  his  lady 
And  beside  her  wicket  stand 
With  young  flowers  in  his  hand. 

But,  behold !  a  hedge  is  parted 
To  his  right,  and  tender  hearted, 
Trembling  lone  stands  before  him, 
Seen  too  plainly  to  retire. 
Instantly  the  hot  blood  rushes 
Through  the  rider's  heart  and  flushes 
To  has  brow ;  his  right  hand  crushes 
In  its  grasp  the  whip  of  briar. 
Swift  he  wheels  his  mettled  stallion 
And  with  heart  and  brain  on  fire 
Comes  to  her  in  sweet  attire. 


And  Other  Poems.  59 

For  a  moment  lone  glances, 
Trembling,  backwards;  then  advances, 
Giving  one  white  hand  to  Bertrand, 
Saying  lowly,  "Is  it  thou?" 
To  his  lips  the  lover  presses 
That  white  hand  he  now  possesses, 
And  with  welcome  words  addresses 
lone  'neath  a  branching  bough; 
And  he  marks  that  she  who  left  him 
But  a  maiden  with  sweet  brow 
Is  a  ripened  woman  now. 

"Dearest  lady,  let  my  gladness, 

Let  my  deep  and  new-found  gladness 

Be  thy  welcome — not  my  speeches, 

But  the  formal  part  of  me. 

Losing  thee,  I  lost  that  even 

One  as  dear  as  life  and  heaven, 

Yet  to  me  that  hour  was  given 

Thy  most  gracious  memory: 

This  Fve  cherished  next  thy  presence 

As  the  dearest  thing  to  me — 

But  how  very  far  from  thee !" 

"Next  to  my  dear  father's  greeting 
Thine  is  dearest,  and  this  meeting 
I  shall  cherish/'  answers  lone; 
"Unexpected,  yet  most  dear. 


60  lone, 

But,  0  Bertrand,  I  am  grieving 
For  my  father, — deeply  grieving ! — 
For,  although  not  past  reprieving, 
He's  past  much  I  greatly  fear; 
Past  all  joy  though  not  past  honor, 
Past  the  old  accustomed  cheer, 
Past  all  faith  in  friends  sincere! 


"True,  he  hath  in  thee  and  others 
Friendship  closer  than  a  brother's, 
But  the  faith  is  dark  within  him 
That  did  once  so  brightly  burn! 
And  I'm  told  he  speaks  unkindly 
Of  his  dearest  friends,  and  blindly 
Judges  all ;  but  ah  not  blindly 
Should  they  judge  him  in  return: 
He  hath  suffered  through  misjudgment, 
Suffered  more  than  we  can  learn, 
And  his  suffering  makes  him  stern." 

"0,  dear  lady,  though  unkindly 

He  hath  judged  his  friends  and  blindly ,- 

I  amongst  them, — yet  our  pardon 

Like  a  suitor  seeks  him  out. 

Thou  hast  said:     He  is  mistaken 

In  our  love  and  not  forsaken, 

Nor  are  the  roots  of  friendship  shaken, 


And  Other  Poems.  61 

And  'tis  suffering  makes  him  doubt; 
But  his  suffering  and  his  sorrow, 
Not  our  action  from  without, 
Nor  his  own  heart,  true,  devout. 

"Yet  ye  spoke  of  his  reprieving 
As  a  thing  not  past  achieving — 
Has  the  guilty  been  discovered? 
Have  they  found  some  certain  clue? 
Tell  me,  can  ye  loose  this  fetter 
That  hath  made  the  law  his  debtor? 
0,  so  be  it;  this  were  better 
Than  a  blessed  dream  come  true. 
'Twere  another  bond  'twixt  gladness 
And  my  heart,  if  it  be  true, — 
And  such  bonds  are  very  few !" 

"It  is  true  that  I  can  free  him," 

Answers  lone:     "Thou  shalt  see  him 

In  his  garden  ere  the  Sabbath, 

For  I  surely  do  not  err. 

On  this  very  day  I'm  bidden 

To  make  known  what  I've  kept  hidden — 

Let  my  silence  be  not  chidden — 

And  set  free  the  prisoner. 

What  I'll  publish  shall  find  credence 

And  to  me  the  law'll  defer, 

Which  should  greatly  please  thee,  sir." 


62  lone, 

"Had  I  but  one  prayer  with  Heaven 
I  would  pray  that  this  be  given, 
Granted  for  thy  sake,  dear  lady, 
Since  'tis  very  dear  to  thee. 
May  I  greet  thee  in  that  garden, 
When  thy  father  hath  his  pardon, 
Or  acquittal,   and  his  warden 
Shall  his  own  kind  daughter  be; 
May  I  greet  thee  there,  sweet  lone, 
In  that  hour  thy  father's  free 
There  to  tell  my  love  to  thee?" 

On  the  ground  her  sweet  eyes  bending, 
Her  full  heart  with  love  contending, 
lone  one  fair  hand  surrenders 
And  surrenders  it  entire; 
For  a  moment  gives  it  wholly 
Into  Bertrand's  hand,  then  slowly 
Turns  away,  and  sweet  and  lowly 
Passes  through  the  hedge  of  brier; 
Sweet  and  pallid  passes  homeward, 
While  with  heart  and  brain  on  fire 
Bertrand  watches  her  retire. 

Ardently  the  youth  regards  her, 
With  the  eyes  of  love  regards  her 
Till  she's  lost  beyond  the  meadow, 
Then  he  dreams  of  her  fair  form. 


And  Other  Poems.  63 

But,  alas!  the  air  is  broken 
By  such  sounds  as  now  betoken 
Some  near  horseman,  and  a  spoken 
Harsh  command  breaks  up  the  charm: 
'Tis  Corambis,  who,  dismounting 
From  his  steed  that  took  alarm, 
Grasps  the  lover  by  the  arm. 

"Ha,  good  Bertrand,  thou'rt  a  lover 
And  a  dreamer,  I  discover, 
For  thy  horse  stands  idly  pawing 
Whilst  thou  gaze  on  empty  air. 
Thou'rt  a  lover  by  thine  action, 
By  this  look  of  deep  abstraction, 
And  the  thin  air  hath  attraction 
But  to  those  in  Beauty's  snare. 
.Come,  attend  me;  I  have  matter, 
Matter  worthy  deepest  care 
As  ye'll  presently  declare!" 

"True,  Corambis,  I'm  a  lover," 
Answers  Bertrand,  "yet  discover 
What  deep  matter  brings  thee  hither 
Surely  at  thy  leisure's  cost. 
Yet  thou  canst  not  bring  me  sadness, 
For  I've  ventured  faith  and  gladness, 
Hope  and  peace,  love  deep  as  madness, 


64  lone, 

On  one  heart,  and  that's  not  lost; 
And  though  earths  four  corners  crumble 
Nothing,  I  may  say,  is  lost 
Till  this  heart  I  love  is  lost!" 

"Hast  thou  ventured  on  a  maiden 
All  thy  wealth  ?     As  well  have  laden 
Jewels  on  the  backs  of  dolphins 
Swimming  in  the  open  sea ! 
Yea,  good  Bertrand,  thou'rt  mistaken 
In  these  hopes  as  yet  unshaken, 
And  thou.  shalt  full  soon  awaken 
To  learn  how  it  is  with  thee; 
Learn  thy  judgment  has  been  sleeping, 
Not  that  sharp-toothed  enemy — 
Woman's  foul  inconstancy! 

"Yet  to  each  man  under  heaven 
Comes  that  hour  when  'tis  given 
Either  to  forget  some  woman 
Or  to  throw  away  his  soul  I" 
Thus  Corambis  to  the  lover 
Speaks  as  one  who  can  discover 
Treason  black  as  clouds  that  hover 
O'er  the  pit  of  sin  and  dole; 
But  the  other  is  not  fearful, 
Standing  near  Love's  perfect  goal 
With  a  faith  divine  and  whole. 


And  Other  Poems.  65 

"No,  Corarabis,  thou'rt  mistaken 

And  my  love  is  still  unshaken," 

Answers  Bertrand ;  "yet  thou  errest 

Through  thy  brain,  not  through  thy  heart. 

Wish  me  well,  yet  by  some  action 

Other  than  to  voice  detraction 

'Gainst  this  lady,  whose  infraction 

Is  a  dream  upon  thy  part. 

As  thou  lovest  me,  speak  no  further, 

For  ye  speak  in  such  a  sort 

As  will  draw  on  rude  retort!" 

"Let  it  come,"  replies  the  other; 
"Though  I  love  thee  as  a  brother 
Better  that  I  lose  thy  friendship 
Than  that  thou  become  a  fool ! 
For  to  lose  thee  through  just  reason 
Is  to  lose  thee  but  a  season, 
Since  I'll  win  thee  back  when  treason 
Proves  my  words  were  just  and  cool ; 
But  thou'rt  lost  to  me  forever 
When  thou'rt  made  this  woman's  tool 
For  I  cannot  love  a  fool! 

"Lend  thine  ear  and  I  will  shake  thee 
To  the  center,  and  awake  thee 
From  this  sleep  wherein  fair  lone 
Would  betray  thee  with  a  kiss. 


66  lone, 

Mark  me,  and,  when  I've  concluded, 
Judge  not  me  that  have  intruded 
Here  upon  thy  dreams  secluded 
But  my  message — judge  ye  this; 
Which,  if  doubted,  go  disprove  me, 
And  not  linger  here  to  hiss 
One  who  showed  thee  an  abyss." 

"Speak  right  on,"  jeplies  the  lover, 

"And  I'll  mark  all  ye  discover, 

For,  in  friendship,  I  do  lend  thee 

Both  mine  ears — yet  not  my  heart. 

I  reserve  all  but  my  hearing 

In  this  cause,  and — nothing  fearing, — 

In  my  faith  still  persevering, — 

I  shall  doubt  all  ye  impart. 

Speak  right  on, — to  ease  thy  conscience 

Freely  mayest  thou  exhort, 

But  thou  canst  not  make  me  start." 


"Where  wast  thou  that  fatal  morning 
When  some  foe — all  honor  scorning — 
Slew  the  noble  Lord  of  Vedin? 
Tell  me  this,  my  steadfast  friend." 
Thus  Corambis,  drawing  nearer, 
Questions  Bertrand,  and  austerer 
Grow  his  features  and  severer 


And  Other  Poems.  67 

Flows  his  question  to  its  end. 
"Wast  thou  passing  through  that  meadow 
Where  Lord  Vedin  did  contend 
With  that  foe  we'd  apprehend?" 

"No,  Corambis,  I  was  riding 
Southward  where  the  sea  is  chiding, 
Half  a  league  beyond  that  meadow 
Which  Lord  Vedin  crost  to  die." 
"Canst  thou  prove  it  to  Eome's  legation 
To  thine  honor's  vindication?" 
Thus  with  seeming  agitation 
Asks  Corambis  in  reply: — 
"Canst  thou  prove  it  by  some  witness 
Meet  within  a  judge's  eye 
Both  to  swear  and  testify?" 

"No,  Corambis,  I've  no  witness; 
But  why  question  my  unfitness 
To  make  good  mine  own  assertions 
As  if  honor  hung  thereon? 
If  in  secret  thou  dost  reason 
That  I  did  this  deed  of  treason, 
Know  thy  words  are  out  of  season 
And  thy  doubts  are  folly's  spawn : 
And  thou  must — for  why,  Corambis, 
Dost  thou  look  so  strangely  on 
As  if  faith  in  me  were  gone?" 


68  lone, 

"No,  by  heaven,  let  me  perish ! 
When  thy  truth  I  cease  to  cherish!" 
Cries  Corambis:     "Thou  dost  wrong  me 
With  these  very  doubts  of  thine. 
Judge  me  not  so  rude — beseech  thee — 
As  to  think  I  would  impeach  thee; 
I  am  here,  good  friend,  to  teach  thee 
Of  another's   charge — not  mine, 
Of  that  charge  that  tender  lone — 
With  some  damnable  design — 
Brings  against  thee :  this,  in  fine ! 

"Learn,  good  Bertrand,  that  fair  lone, 
Ere  thy  kisses  shall  be  dry  on 
Her  white  hand,  will  rise  in  judgment 
And  impeach  thee  with  this  deed. 
Swear  that — as  she  walked  in  study 
On  that  morn — with  face  all  bloody 
And  apparel  cut  and  muddy, 
Thou  wast  fleeing  o'er  that  mead: 
Swear  enough  to  draw  damnation 
Down  upon  thee — who  must  bleed 
That  her  father  may  be  freed  !" 

At  these  words  the  lover  blanches, 
Grasping  hard  the  hanging  branches 
In  whose  shade  fair  lone  granted 
Sweet  assurance  of  her  truth. 


And  Other  Poems.  69 

But  his  heart  is  soon  collected 
Which  so  deeply  was  affected, 
And  each  rising  doubt  rejected 
As  unworthy  love  and  youth: 
From  his  heart,  with  faith  all  glowing, 
Now  he  plucks  the  serpent's  tooth; 
Yet  ere  long  'twill  work  him  ruth ! 


"Take  this  dream  back  to  thy  chalice/' 

Thus  he  speaks,  "and,  without  malice, 

Drown  it  in  some  cooler  claret 

Than  begot  it  in  thy  brain. 

Yet  I  thank  thee  for  thy  trouble; 

And,  since  vain,  my  thanks  are  double; 

Vain — I  say — vain  as  a  bubble 

In  that  wine  cup  thou  didst  drain! 

For  this  lady  would  not  wrong  me 

Nor  a  moment  cause  me  pain 

Though  it  prove  her  father's  gain." 

"Go  thy  way,  then,"  thus  the  other, 
"  'From  the  smoke  into  the  smother/ 
I  have  warned  thee,  but  my  warning 
Is  to  thee  a  drunken  dream. 
Let  the  quicksands  close  above  thee 
Where  this  maiden's  hand  will  shove  thee, 
While  thy  friend  who'd  save  and  love  thee 


70  lone, 

Turns  away  in  sad  extreme: 
Shut  thine  eyes  and  call  it  honor, 
Stop  thine  ears  and  calPt  esteem — 
Woman  nerver  yet  did  scheme !" 

Deeply  Bertrand  is  astonished 

That  his  doubts  are  thus  admonished, 

That  his  friend  remains  so  steadfast 

Where  all  seems  of  folly  born. 

Can  it  be  that  lone  imposes 

Such  a  price  for  love's  sweet  roses  ? 

Doth  she  hope  that  for  love's  roses 

He  will  wear  this  crown  of  thorn? 

Must  he  suffer  and  be  silent 

Or  expect  his  lady's  scorn 

Ere  the  breaking  of  the  morn? 

"Had  her  own  sweet  lips  but  tasked  me 
I  had  borne  what  she  had  asked  me/' 
Thus  he  thinks  in  pain  and  silence; 
Then  aloud  unto  his  friend : 
"How  came  ye  to  know  what's  hidden 
That  thon  hast  so  harshly  chidden? 
Say,  Corambis,  wast  thou  bidden 
Thus  to  speak,  yet  not  offend? 
Did  my  lady  send  thee  hither 
With  thds  message  ye  extend, 
Or  is't  thine  unto  the  end?" 


And  Other  Poems.  71 

"Wilt  thou  hear  Death's  raven  croaking," 
Thus  Corambis,  "and,  fast  cloaking 
Up  thy  head,  swear  'tis  the  turtle 
Bringing  thee  the  olive  bloom? 
"Tis  my  message  and  each  letter 
Makes  thee  my  eternal  debtor, 
And  than  scorn  it  thou  hadst  better 
Go  alive  into  thy  tomb! 
Hadst  thou  eyes  r-ot  shut  and  blinded 
Thou  wouldst  hide  thee  with  the  gloom, 
And  not  wait  the  whirlwind's  doom ! 

"More  than  this  I'll  not  reveal  thee, 

Yet  I  promise  to  conceal  thee 

There  where  thou  may'st  hear  this  maiden 

Charging  thee  with  that  foul  deed. 

Then,  indeed,  thou  shalt  awaken 

Knowing  that  thou  art  forsaken, 

Yet,  ere  thou  art  overtaken, 

May  fly  hence  with  instant  speed; — 

I've  a  vessel  in  the  harbor 

Which  I'll  lend  thee  in  thy  need 

If  thou'll  only  turn  and  heed. 

"0  that  I  could  but  persuade  him 
To  fly  hence  ere  they  degrade  him," 
Now  in  silence  thinks  Corambis, 
"Then  his  guilt  would  seem  confest. 


72  lone, 

Should  he  flee  it  would  awaken 
Suspicions  not  to  be  shaken, 
And  as  soon  as  overtaken 
He  would  suffer  death  at  best: 
So  should  I  be  safe  in  future, 
For  this  crime,  'tis  manifest, 
Still  upon  his  head  would  rest." 

"Thanks,  Corambis,  for  thy  kindness 
Shown  me  in  my  seeming  blindness," 
Thus  young  Bertrand  calmly  answers, 
"But  thou  canst  not  serve  me,  sir. 
True  it  is  thou'd  not  deceive  me, 
True  this  lady  would  not  grieve  me, 
But  not  true,  good  friend,  believe  me, 
That  mistakes  do  not  occur ! 
Therefore  I'll  continue  steadfast 
And  believe — though  ye  demur — 
That  thou  art  mistaken,  sir." 

With  these  words  this  best  of  lovers 
His  accustomed  calm  recovers, 
And,  into  his  saddle  springing, 
Questions,  "Whither  goest  to-day?*' 
But  Corambis,  deeply  sighing, 
Looks  aside  without  replying, 
So  the  lover,  gratifying 


And  Other  Poems.  73 

His  own  fancy,  turns  away. — 
Horse  and  rider  soon  are  hidden 
'Mong  the  trees  that  yet  display 
No  green  shoots  or  bloomy  spray. 

Meanwhile  lone,  with  the  Master 
And  that  Captain  whom  disaster 
Touched  so  deeply,  stood  conversing 
Close  beneath  a  sandy  mound, 
lone  hath  made  known  that  vision 
Which  might  mar  the  law's  decision, 
To  these  friends  made  known  that  vision 
Of  her  lover  in  the  ground; 
But  hath  told  her  plan  of  action 
Which  will  free  her  father  bound 
Nor  her  guiltless  Love  confound. 

Modestly,  without  distraction, 
She  made  known  her  plan  of  action — 
How  she  purposes  to  publish 
That  she  slew  the  murdered  lord. 
For  a  while  both  friends  objected 
To  this  plan  that  lone  selected, 
Fearing  it  would  be  suspected 
And  all  things  made  doubly  hard ; 
Then  they  bowed  to  her  decision, 
Taken  from  their  better  ward 
By  her  pleas  and  their  regard. 


74  lone, 

Thus  essentially  won  over 
Still  to  shield  sweet  Tone's  lover, 
Now  the  Master  and  the  Captain 
Take  their  leave  and  go  their  way. 
lone  marks  their  steps  retreating 
Mingling  with  her  heart's  loud  beating, 
And  those  footsteps  seem  repeating, 
"All  is  well:  fear  no  dismay!" 
And  her  heart  takes  up  the  burden 
When  the  footsteps  die  away— 
"All  is  well :  fear  no  dismay !" 

•Now  upon  the  gray  sand  kneeling, 

O'er  her  brow  a  warm  blush  stealing, 

lone  thinks  upon  her  lover 

And  upon  the  coining  years. 

No  prophetic  sorrow  chills  her, 

But  the  golden  sunlight  fills  her 

With  a  gentle  calm, — now  thrills  her 

Till  she's  flattered  unto  tears. 

She  is  happy,  very  happy, 

And  she  almost  dreams  she  hears 

That  far  music  of  the  spheres! 

But,  alas!  the  charm  is  broken 
By  a  greeting  sternly  spoken, 
And  Corambis  bends  o'er  lone 
And  her  features  coldly  scan. 


And  Other  Poems.  75 

Rising  up  the  maiden  faces 
This  rude  traitor,  and  some  paces 
Draweth  backwards,  as  she  places 
Little  trust  in  voice  or  man. 
She  knows  both,  yet  guesses  neither, 
For  Corambis — 'tis  his  plan — 
Seems — disguised — another  man. 


"My  fair  maiden,  do  not  wonder 
How  that  name  thou  goest  under," 
Thus  Corambis,  "grew  familiar 
To  these  stranger  lips  of  mine; 
Marvel  not  that  I'm  acquainted 
With  thy  thoughts  so  deeply  tainted, 
Nor  be  awed  when  I  have  painted 
Every  hope  and  fear  of  thine; 
But  put  all  such  wonder  from  thee 
And  attend  my  every  sign 
For  I  come  with  warning  fine ! 

"In  this  land  thou  hast  a  lover 
And  thou  couldst  a  tale  discover 
Which  might  bring  this  lover  sorrow 
But  would  set  thy  father  free. 
This  I  know,  and  know,  moreover, 
That  ye  think  to  shield  this  lover, 
Yet  in  that  same  hour  recover 


76  lone, 

Thy  good  father's  liberty : — 
Thou  dost  purpose  through  a  falsehood- 
Setting  by  thy  modesty — 
To  corrupt  the  law's  decree! 

"But  beware,  for  if  thou  swearest 
To  this  falsehood  as  thou  darest, 
I'll  impeach  thy  testimony 
And  thou'll  lose  thy  foolish  pains! 
Take  not  on  thyself,  false  maiden, 
That  strange  murder  of  Lord  Vedin, 
Or  ere  night  thou  shalt  be  laden 
With  a  perjurer's  close  chains; 
And,  once  swearing  false,  the  judges 
Still  will  doubt  thee :  so  remains 
Thy  good  father  in  his  chains ! 

"But  bear  witness  to  that  vision 
Which  shall  change  the  law's  decision, 
To  that  vision  of  young  Bertrand 
On  the  morn  when  Vedin  fell. 
Swear  thou  saw  him  pale  and  bloody, 
With  his  vestment  cut  and  muddy, 
As  thou  walked  in  early  study 
In  the  field  where  Vedin  fell. 
While,  as  for  that  other  vision 
Where  this  youth  seemed  in  a  well, 
'Tis  a  dream  ye  must  not  tell. 


And  Other  Poems.  77 

"Thus  I  charge  thee,  and  my  power 
Next  the  King's  is  chief  this  hour, 
And  herefrom  thy  only  safety 
And  thy  only  hope  shall  spring! 
Therefore  scheme  not  to  deny  me 
Or  by  silence  to  defy  me, 
Nor  with  riches  seek  to  buy  me 
Or  my  heart  attempt  to  wring; 
Thou  canst  move  a  dead  man  sooner 
Than  this  spirit  which  I  bring, 
Long  since  past  all  altering." 

Like  to  one  entranced  or  dreaming, 

lone  marks  the  gray  eyes  gleaming 

In  the  brow  of  false  Corambis, 

Nor  could  speak  though  she  should  try. 

So  the  dove  amid  the  grasses 

Marks  the  snake's  eye  as  it  glasses, 

With  a  charm  mesmeric  glasses, 

And  can  neither  move  nor  cry ; 

But  with  lone  'tis  amazement 

More  than  some  mesmeric  eye 

That  enchains  her  dumbly  by. 

Having  done  all  in  his  power 
To  corrupt  love's  sweetest  hour, 
Now  Corambis  leaves  the  maiden 
And  triumphant  goes  his  way. 


78  lone, 

Down  upon  the  gray  sands  falling 
Hapless  lone — still  recalling 
That   strange  warning  and   appalling — 
Hides  her  face  from  the  bright  day, 
And  her  blanched  lips  are  silent, 
And  her  hands,  though  joined  are  they, 
Are  not  joined  to  plead  or  pray. 


Thus  some  moments  she  continues, 

All  the  strength  gone  from  her  sinews, 

Overcome  in  heart  and  body 

Though  her  mind  is  active  still. 

But  once  more  the  sound  comes  stealing 

O'er  her  ear  of  far  bells  pealing, 

And  she  rises  up,  revealing 

In  her  face  the  griefs  that  kill — 

Pale  despair  and  tearless  sorrow, 

And  a  noble,  tender  will 

Helpless  in  the  hour  of  ill. 

To  the  west  she  turns  and  passes 
Through  the  tall  and  clinging  grasses, 
Staggering  like  one  in  sickness, 
Falling  thrice  upon  her  knee. 
Up  the  wind  deep  bells  are  swinging 
And  her  call  to  court  are  ringing; 
Deep-mouthed  bells  that  now  are  bringing 


And  Other  Poems.  79 

Judge  and  clerk  to  hear  her  plea: — 
'Tis  the  hour  for  testimony — 
And  pale  lone  holds  the  key 
To  her  father's  liberty ! 

"I  am  coming,  father,  coming; 

Be  thou  patient;  I  am  coming!" 

Now  she  cries  and  onward  hastens 

To  the  tower  of  her  trial. 

At  the  gates  of  alabaster 

Pale  yet  firm  she  greets  the  Master, 

But  speaks  not  of  that  disaster 

Agonizing  her  the  while. 

This  she  locks  within  her  bosom 

And  moves  up  the  marble  aisle 

Deep  into  the  prison  pile. 

To  a  chamber  where  tall  torches 
Dimly  light  the  hanging  arches 
lone  comes,  but  here  the  Master 
Cannot  enter — so  returns, 
lone  comes:  a  clerk  perceives  her 
And  with  formal  hand  receives  her; 
To  that  spot  he  guides  and  leaves  her 
Where  the  brightest  taper  burns, 
And  each  eye  is  on  the  maiden 
And  the  dullest  eye  discerns 
That  her  heart  with  sorrow  yearns. 


8o  lone, 

Pale  she  looks, — and  yet  not  daunted, 
Though  by  evil  spirits  haunted, — 
Pale  and  sad;  yet  in  her  bearing 
Strength  there  is  and  much  of  pride. 
But  that  strength  comes  near  to  failing 
And  her  pride  seems  unavailing 
As  into  the  judgment  railing 
Comes  her  father  with  his  guide: 
Pity  melts  her  gentle  bosom, 
And  she  now  can  scarcely  tide 
Tears  that  down  her  cheeks  would  glide. 

She  would  weep !  but  ah  for  weeping 

Time  and  place  are  out  of  keeping, 

So  her  pride  congeals  the  waters 

That  arise  unto  her  eye. 

She  would  weep !  but  now  the  dial 

Points  the  hour  for  the  trial, 

And  she  must  not  weep  the  while 

But  be  calm  and  testify ; 

She  may  weep  when  all  is  over 

And  no  judge  or  jury  by, 

But  till  then  her  eyes  be  dry! 

On  her  right  a  clerk  now  rising — 
His  commission  exercising — 
Swears  her  in  to  be  a  witness 
And,  so  swearing,  bids  her  speak': 


And  Other  Poems.  81 

Speak  the  truth  unbiased  by  feeling, 
Nothing  adding,  naught  concealing, 
Speak  the  truth  of  every  dealing 
For  whose  facts  the  law  shall  seek. — 
This  he  formally  commands  her, 
And  sweet  lone  grows  faint  and  weak 
With  sick  heart  and  blanched  cheek ! 


Faint  she  grows  and  near  to  falling 

With  an  agony  appalling, 

Thrice  essaying  and  thrice  failing 

To  find  speech  to  testify: 

But  she  thinks  upon  the  morrow 

And  her  father  freed  from  sorrow, 

And  from  such  full  thought  doth  borrow 

Strength  and  courage  to  reply — 

To  bear  witness  'gainst  young  Bertrand, 

And  one  moment  gratify 

Her  wronged  sire  ere  he  die! 

Word  by  word  her  lips  discover 
That  last  vision  of  her  lover, 
But  no  vision  lone  calls  it 
Nor  casts  doubt  upon  its  truth. 
Shade  by  shade,  as  she  confesses — 
'Gainst  her  guiltless  Love  confesses! 
In  the  chamber's  far  recesses 


82  lone, 

Grows  the  image  of  that  youth, 
Grows  the  image  of  young  Bertrand, 
In  his  features — naught  uncouth — • 
Deep  amazement  mixed  with  ruth. 

"Tis  a  vision  to  the  maiden, 

Fraught  with  shame,  with  horror  laden; 

Such  an  insubstantial  vision 

As  she  witnessed  twice  before. 

Yet  she  gives  the  court  no  token, 

Or  by  whispered  word  or  spoken, 

That  its  privacy  is  broken 

And  a  wraith  stands  at  the  door; 

But  her  pale,  thin  lips  continue 

In  their  charge  as  heretofore, 

While  a  cold  dew  bathes  her  o'er. 

On  the  wraith  her  fixed  eyes  bending, 
Through  a  time  that  seems  unending, 
Still  her  lips  beat  out  the  story 
Of  that  vision  of  the  mead. 
Still  she  speaks,  and  still  that  spirit 
Standing  in  the  door,  or  near  it, 
Listens  to  her  speech,  to  hear  it 
With  a  heart  that  still  can  bleed. 
With  a  human  heart — and  breaking — 
Still  the  lover  gives  her  heed 
As  her  fatal  words  proceed ! 


And  Other  Poems.  83 

But  an  end  comes  to  the  story 
Of  her  Love  all  pale  and  gory 
Fleeing  on  that  fatal  morning 
From  the  mead  where  Vedin  fell ; 
Yet  pale  lone  is  not  seated, 
Though  her  tale  is  now  completed ; 
Still  she  stands, — all  power  fleeted 
'Gainst  that  vision  to  rebel, — 
For  the  countenance  of  Bertrand 
Draws  her  like  a  mystic  spell 
Which  she  has  no  strength  to  quell. 

Still  into  the  shadows  peering, 
Nothing  hoping,  all  things  fearing, 
lone  stands,  and  while  thus  standing 
Comes  the  judge's  formal  strain : 
"That  this  honored  court's  decision 
By  no  insubstantial  vision, 
By  no  idle,  gross  misprision, 
Be  corrupted  and  made  vain, 
Let  the  witness  testifying 
Answer — and  so  we  constrain — 
This  one  question,  then  refrain. 

"Has  this  witness  ere  been  haunted, 
Like  unto  a  soul  enchanted, 
By  some  insubstantial  vision 
Such  as  judgment  puts  to  flight? 


84  lone, 

Has  she  seen  in  earth  or  heaven 
With  the  morn  or  noon  or  even, 
Or  in  waters  under  heaven, 
Any  visionary  sight? 
Has  the  presence  of  this  Bertrand 
Haunted  her  by  day  or  night 
While  the  youth  was  absent  quite  ?" 


Deep  into  the  shadows  peering, 
Nothing  hoping,  all  things  fearing, 
lone  stands,  and  slowly,  lowly, 
Comes  her  answer,  fraught  with  pain 
"No,  my  lord,  I  ne'er  was  haunted, 
By  no  empty  presence  haunted ; 
Nor,  like  some  rapt  soul  enchanted. 
Have  I  looked  on  visions  vain. 
Nay,  my  lord,  so  rest  my  spirit, 
Never  yet  did  vision  chain 
Mine  eyesight,  or  vex  my  brain !" 

Thus  pale  lone,  falsely  swearing, 
Answers,  while  her  eyes  are  staring 
Hard  against  the  face  of  Bertrand, 
That  a  vision  seems  to  be. 
But  yet  Tone's  not  enchanted, 
Nor  the  secret  chamber  haunted — • 
It  is  Bertrand — pale  and  daunted — 


And  Other  Poems.  85 

Standing  there  so  silently ! 
By  an  accident  he  entered 
At  the  door,  to  hear  and  see 
-What  he  vowed  could  never  be! 

Now,  as  lone  ceases  speaking — 
Still  her  eyes  those  shadows  seeking, — 
On  her  right  a  clerk  uprises 
And  calls  on  her  father's  name. 
Twice  the  summons  is  repeated, 
Twice  the  prisoner  is  greeted, 
But  the  old  man  still  is  seated, 
Deaf,  it  seems,  or  lost  in  shame ; 
Still  is  seated,  and  no  motion 
Stirs  his  aged,  weary  frame, 
Lighted  up  by  fitful  flame. 

"Cease  thy  summons;  he  is  stricken 
Whom  ye  think  by  words  to  quicken !" 
Thus  a  dark  robed  priest  makes  answer, 
Standing  in  the  fitful  light. 
"Lo,  behold,  his  heart  was  broken 
Ere  the  witness  yet  had  spoken ; 
Yea,  he  died  ere  yet  one  token 
Eeached  thine  ears  to  set  him  right ! 
He  is  gone  where  is  no  error 
And  now  walks  in  Honor's  sight 
With  meek  spirits  and  upright!" 


86  lone, 

"Dead!"  the  judge  repeateth  slowly, 
"Dead!"  the  walls  re-echo  lowly; 
"Dead!"  and  with  one  cry  to  heaven 
lone  sinks  on  dusty  stone ! 
"Dead!"  a  hollow  sigh  replieth 
Prom  cold  lips  that  none  descrieth, — 
<fDead!"  and  where  the  torchlight  dieth 
Fades  a  form  that  stood  alone. 
"Dead!  my  lord;  but  stay  thy  session 
Till  this  Bertrand  shall  atone 
For  his  guilt  so  clearly  shown  V 


PART   IV. 

IB  yon  lonoly  field  and  barren — 

Long  ago  a  noble's  warren, 

But  since  blasted  by  the  tempest — 

Stands  a  thatched  and  lowly  cot: 

From  its  door  no  light  is  streaming 

Though  'tis  dusk  and  few  stars  gleaming, 

Dusk,  and  all  the  waste  seems  dreaming 

Melancholy  and  forgot; 

Dusk,  and  no  sound  save  the  complaining 

Of  the  owl  from  secret  grot 

And  the  winds  that  sweep  that  spot. 


And  Other  Poems.  87 

To  this  shelter,  dark  and  lowly, 
Lo,  a  woman  struggles  slowly, 
Through  the  waste  of  snow  new-fallen, 
Faint,  exhausted,  struggles  on ! 
Now  she  sinks  to  earth,  betraying 
Wild  despair,  yet  not  delaying ! 
Now  she  kneels,  and,  dumbly  praying, 
Creeps  the  icy  ground  upon ! 
By  no  clasp  her  hair  is  gathered, 
And  her  hood  and  cloak  are  gone, 
Torn  away  by  gusts  of  dawn. 

Still  the  bitter  winds  pursue  her, 

And  it  seems  they  will  subdue  her, 

But  at  last  she  gains  the  threshold 

Of  that  shelter  dark  and  lone. 

Thrice  in  vain  she  knocks — then,  kneeling, — 

Her  faint  brain  with  horror  reeling ! — 

Calls  aloud  in  voice  appealing 

That  some  charity  be  shown; 

But  the  silence  is  unbroken 

Save  by  icy  winds  that  moan 

O'er  that  shelter  of  rude  stone. 

Eising  now,  she  looks  behind  her 
At  the  snows  that  daze  and  blind  her; 
Now  she  turns — and,  lo,  kind  mercy 
Hath  the  door  wide  open  thrown ! 


88  lone, 

In  she  enters,  saying  lowly, 

"God  reward  thee;  thou  art  holy!" 

But  no  answer  comes,  and  slowly 

She  perceives  that  she's  alone, 

That  the  door  wherethrough  she  entered 

By  the  wind  was  open  blown, 

And  no  other  welcome  shown. 


Though  no  thanks  to  man  he  given, 
Deepest  thanks  are  due  to  heaven, 
And  most  humbly  they  are  rendered 
With  meek  heart  and  bended  knee : 
"For  this  strength  I  have  remaining, 
God,  I  thank  thee,  uncomplaining; 
I  have  asked,  and — all-sustaining — 
Thou  hast  shown  much  grace  to  me : 
Let  it  grow  till  I  have  finished 
That  which  brought  me  o'er  the  sea 
And  that  drew  me  near  to  Thee." 

Ceasing  now,  she  looks  around  her, 
Trembling,,  for  the  cold  winds  wound  her. 
And  the  darkness  makes  her  fearful 
Hiding  what  she  does  not  know; 
But  full  soon  the  shadows  lighten 
And  her  thoughts  no  more  affrighten, 
For  the  hearth  begins  to  brighten, 


And  Other  Poems.  89 

Fanned  by  winds  that  inward  blow; 
And,  behold,  the  room  is  lighted, 
As  the  bright  flames  come  and  go, 
By  a  warm  and  ruddy  glow ! 

Closing  now  the  door,  and  kneeling, 

With  the  firelight  o'er  her  stealing, 

She  gives  way  to  dreams  and  slumber 

At  worn  nature's  heavy  call : 

But  not  long,  for  something  haunts  her, 

Something  left  unfinished  haunts  her, 

Some  great  work  that  grieves  and  daunts  her, 

Yet  which  she  cannot  recall; 

And  she  wakens  from  that  slumber, 

Resting  on  her  like  a  pall, 

With  her  pulse  in  fever's  thrall. 

Suddenly  she  looks  with  wonder 

At  a  sword  the  mantle  under, 

And  a  passionate  cry  escapes  her 

As  the  firelight  plays  it  o'er. 

Pale  she  grows  with  deep  emotion, 

Pallid  with  a  strange  prenotion, 

And  she  kneels  as  in  devotion 

Down  upon  the  rush-strewn  floor. 

Something  in  the  sight  hath  stirred  her 

As  perhaps  no  sight  before 

Ever  stirred  her  bosom's  core. 


90  lone, 

"Bertrand,  Bertrand,  have  I  found  thee  ? — 

Though  despairing,  have  I  found  thee? 

Dost  thou  dwell  in  this  far  valley? 

Do  I  kneel  where  thou  abide? 

'Tis  thy  sword  ! — to  thee  'twas  given 

By  my  father  now  in  heaven, 

And,  although  our  love  be  riven, 

Thou  hast  cast  it  not  aside ! 

'Tis  thy  sword !  and  here  I'll  linger, 

Though  thy  love  hath  long  since  died, 

Till  I  ,hear  thy  step  outside ! 

"  'Tis  thy  sword ! — I'm  not  mistaken, 
Nor  I  dream,  and  shall  awaken : 
See,  ah  see,  thy  name  is  graven 
Here  upon  the  fretted  guard ! 
Ay?  'tis  thine,  and  soon  returning 
Thou  wilt  find  a  bright  fire  burning, 
And  I'll  kneel,  that  not  with  spurning 
Thou  wilt  hear  me — false,  abhorr'd! 
And  I'll  tell  thee  how  Corambis 
Hath  confessed  he  slew  that  lord, 
And  is  gone  to  his  reward ! 

"Surely,  surely  thou  wilt  hear  me, 
Though  I've  wronged  thee  thou  wilt  hear  me, 
For  I've  searched  the  wide  world  over, 
But  to  publish  this  to  thee! 


And  Other  Poems.  91 

Much  I've  suffered,  still  abjuring 
Every  joy;  all  things  enduring; 
Through  all  seasons  still  assuring 
My  sick  soul  that  thou'd  hear  me; 
And  thou  wilt  not  spurn  me,  Bertrand, 
Till  I  speak  and  set  thee  free 
From  that  haunting  infamy!" 


Thus  pale  lone,  lowly  kneeling, 
With  the  fire  light  o'er  her  stealing, 
Touched  with  hope  and  stirred  by  passion, 
Lays  her  fraughted  bosom  bare. 
But  her  heart  now  shakes  with  terror, 
With  a  fell  and  sudden  terror: — 
All,  she  fears,  may  be  an  error 
And  her  heart  must  needs  despair; 
Bertrand  may  be  dead  or  distant, 
And  a  stranger  fallen  heir 
To  his  weapon  hanging  there. 

Yet  not  long  is  she  affrighted 
By  these  doubts  her  fears  excited, 
For  she  finds  upon  the  table 
Bertrand' s  ring  that  bears  his  seal. 
Near  it — open  to  her  glances — 
Lies  a  volume  of  romances — 
Prose  and  verse  that  time  enhances, 


92  lone, 

And  to  sorrow  most  appeal : 
Bertrand's  name  is  on  the  margin 
By  the  verse  that  cannot  heal 
His  sad  heart,  yet  may  reveal. 

"He  will  come  again/'  she  whispers,- 
To  the  volume  lowly  whispers; 
"  'Tis  his  writing  on  thy  margin,, 
Next  his  voice  and  face  most  dear! 
He  will  come  again,  and,  kneeling, — 
Nothing  in  that  hour  concealing, — 
I  will  bring  his  spirit  healing, 
Though  he  loathe  my  presence  here: 
I  will  tell  him  of  Corambis, 
And  he  shall  no  longer  fear 
For  his  life  or  freedom  dear. 

"He  will  hate  me,  loathe,  revile  me, 
And  for  evermore  exile  me, 
Yet  'twere  better,  ah   far  better, 
That  he  hate  me  than  forget! 
He  will  loathe  my  name  forever, 
Yea,  forever  and  forever! — 
Or,  perchance,  the  years  will  sever 
Memory's  bonds  that  bind  him  yet, 
And  in  some  brief  fleeting  seasons, 
Though  I  wronged  him,  he'll  forget 
That  we  parted,  or  e'er  met !" 


And  Other  Poems.  93 

Thus  laments  pale  lone,  believing 
Bertrand's  scorn  is  past  retrieving, 
Thus  laments  above  the  volume 
That  shall  shed  a  different  light— 
O'er  that  volume  of  romances, 
At  which  she  but  merely  glances, 
Till  through  better  fate  it  chances 
That  some  verses  meet  her  sight, 
Verses  where  the  book  lies  open, 
And  which  Bertrand  ere  the  night 
Read  with  sad  heart  and  contrite. 

"Here  he  read — the  page  is  holy !" 
She  continues,  rapt  and  lowly; 
"Here  his  eyes  have  lately  rested, 
And  I'll  dare  to  read  it  o'er. 
Since  I  charged  him  with  the  slaying 
Of  that  lord, — all  love  betraying! — 
And  he  fled, — no  hour  staying 
Wherein  I  had  told  him  more, — 
I  have  nothing  read,  and  haply 
It  may  blunt  my  pain  to  pore 
O'er  these  verses  of — 'Elnore.'  " 


94  lone, 


ELNOKE. 

Deep  I  loved  with  love  all  holy,  ere  the  demon 

Melancholy 
O'er  my  soul  had  cast  its  shadow — to  be  lifted 

nevermore ! 
For  I  loved  as  loves  a  spirit,  such  as  without  grief 

inherit 
Aidenn  or  the  regions  near  it,  where  no  cloud  ere 

brooded  o'er — 
Loved  as  spirits  love  in  Aidenn,  where  no  cloud 

ere  brooded  o'er — 

Loved  the  radiant  Elnore. 

Ah,  she  walked  in  light  from  heaven,  ere  our  an- 
cient love  was  riven, 

Ere  my  spirit  rushed  into  eclipse  upon  a  foreign 
shore, — 

Eadiant  as  the  star  of  morning  that  the  angels 
are  adorning; 

Star  of  love  and  sad  forewarning  that  my  spirit 
doth  adore, 

Eadiant  as  the  star  of  morning  that  my  spirit 
must  adore, 

With  its  memories  of  Elnore. 


And  Other  Poems.  95 

Then  my  days  were  all  of  gladness,  and  my  nights 

were  without  madness ; 
Music  followed  close  behind  me  and  her  image 

went  before: 
Every  rose  that  blew  to  heaven,  when  we  met  at 

golden  even, 
Blew  again  in  sweet  dreams  given,  to  a  Presence 

brooding  o'er — 
Blew  in  blessed  dreams  of  midnight  to  a  Presence 

brooding  o'er — 

The  bright  Presence  of  Elnore. 

But  a  change  came  o'er  her  brightness,  and  her 

heart  took  on  a  lightness 
Such  as  told  her  spirit  wearied  of  the  passionate 

love  I  bore; 
Such  as  whispered  of  another,  dearer  than  a  friend 

or  brother, 
One  whose  lightest  word  could  smother  all  my  love 

that  went  before — 
One  whose  lightest  word  was  dearer  than  my  love 

that  went  before, — 

One  beloved  by  lost  Elnore. 

And  I  cast  away  all  gladness  to  believe  it  in  my 

madness, 
And  the  roses  withered  in  my  dreams  to  blossom 

nevermore : 


96  lone, 

All  the  light  went  out  of  heaven,  when  our  an- 
cient love  was  riven, 

Save  the  bolts  of  fitful  levin  naming  o'er  the 
troubled  shore — 

Save  the  red  and  maddened  levin  naming  o'er 
the  troubled  shore, 

And  the  form  of  lost  Elnore. 

Spurning  love  and  love's  last  prophet,  far  I  fled 
into  a  Tophet 

Where  the  shadow  of  the  cypress  hung  fantas- 
tically o'er: 

Spurning  her  that  love  had  painted  as  beyond  all 
women  sainted, 

With  the  demon  Hate  acquainted,  soon  I  fled  my 
native  shore — 

With  a  demon  in  my  bosom  soon  I  fled  my  native 
shore, 

And  the  love  of  lost  Elnore. 

Under  some  fantastic  heaven  whence  the  wraith 
of  hope  was  driven, 

Long  I  searched  for  Lethe  dim— to  feel  that  death 
is  not  its  shore. 

There  one  crescent  moon  of  sorrow  awakes  mor- 
row unto  morrow, 

And  the  pools  a  silence  borrow  from  that  planet 
hanging  o'er — 


And  Other  Poems.  97 

Silence   deep   as  death   they    borrow   from   that 
planet  hanging  o'er, 

Pale  and  wan  as  lost  Elnore. 


By  a  dim    titanic    alley,  leading  to  an  ultimate 

valley, 
Whence  the  Dead  alone  return — return  to  haunt 

whom  they  adore, 
By  dim  sheeted  figures  haunted,  such  as  might 

have  madness  daunted, 
Long  I  dwelt  as  one  enchanted  by  that  planet 

hanging  o'er, 
By  that  changeless,  silent,  wan  and  ghastly  planet 

hanging  o'er, 

With  its  dreams  of  lost  Elnore. 


Dwelt  until  a  spirit  lonely  whispered  that  my  star 

was  only 
As  a  planet  in  eclipse,  to  dawn  upon  a  fairer 

shore, —    . 
Dwelt  until  with  sweet  insistence,  haunting  me 

without  resistance, 
From  the  ultimate  dim  distance  flowed  the  voice 

that  I  adore, 
Flowed  the  sweet,  the  sorrowful,  the  tender  voice 

that  I  adore — 

The  spirit  voice  of  lost  Elnore1. 


98  lone, 

Sweeter  than  a  voice  from  Aidenn  was  her  sing- 
ing,  sorrow  laden, 

And  I  cast  my  heart  beneath  the  spirit  feet  that 
pasi  me  o'er! 

Fearful  was  my  soul  and  shaken  that  her  love  I 
had  mistaken — 

That  in  scorn  I  had  forsaken  One  that  angels 
might  adore, 

One    that    angels,  happier  for  an  earthly  love, 
might  well  adore, 

And  that  One  the  lost  Elnore. 

Yet  I  gave  the  night  no  token  that  my  spirit  had 

been  broken, 
Though  all   Tophet  had  no  tongue  to  tell  the 

agony  I  bore; 
ISTeither  lingered  I  till  breaking  of  that  moon  that 

fiends  were  waking, 
But,   the  instant  way  betaking,   came  unto  my 

native  shore, 
Like  a  spirit  from  enchantment  came  unto  my 

native  shore, 

And  the  feet  of  lost  Elnore. 

As  the  angels  change  in  Aidenn,  she  had  changed 

with  sorrow  laden ; 
Yea,  she  had  become  a  spirit  for  whom  death  could 

do  no  more : 


And  Other  Poems.  99 

All  of  earth  that  clung  around  her  were  the  roses 
pale  that  bound  her, 

And  the  roses'  scent  that  wound  her  in  a  fragrance 
evermore — 

In  a  fragrance  that  shall  cling  around  the  mem- 
ory evermore 

Of  the  meek  and  lost  Elnore. 

She  was  sleeping  by  a  fountain  where  the  red 

earth  meets  the  mountain, 
And  the  moonlight  lay  upon  her  eyes,  and  on  the 

wreath    she  wore: 
She  was  sleeping — was  she  dreaming?  dreaming 

of  the  fountain  gleaming? 
Dreaming  of  the  moonlight  streaming?  dreaming 

One  was  bending  o'er, 
One  who  loved  her  dearer  than  the  dead  are  loved 

was  bending  o'er — 

Bending  o'er  his  lost  Elnore? 

She  was  sleeping — was    she    sleeping?    all    my 

pulses  in  me  leaping, 
Down  beside  her  form  I  knelt,  and  from  her  heart 

the  flowers  tore: 
Surely  I  was  not  mistaken,,  surely  she  would  soon 

awaken ! — 
She  had  swooned  with  sorrow  shaken,  but  the 

night  was  passing  o'er, 


ioo  lone, 

All  the  bitter,  bitter  night  of  sorrow  then  was 
passing  o'er, 

Giving  back  my  lost  Elnore. 

So  I  kissed  those  eyes  that  borrow  a  fixed  light 
from  fleeting  sorrow, 

Softly  breathing  Night  was  far  behind  and  Morn- 
ing just  before; 

And  my  heart  drank  deep  of  madness  from  the 
spirit's  cup  of  gladness, 

While  my  pulse  o'erran  the  sadness  that  its  ruddy 
current  bore — 

While  each  pulse  o'erran  the  sadness  that  its  ruddy 
current  bore, 

As  it  set  to  lost  Elnore. 

Then  a  darkness  fell  around  me,  and  a  coil  of 
horror  boimd  me, 

And  a  growing  light  went  out  of  heaven  to  re- 
turn no  more! 

For — 0  God — she  did  not  waken ! — All  the  angels 
had  forsaken 

Me,  the  madman,  and  had  taken  that  bright  spirit 
I  adore; 

Heaven,  with  my  coming,  stooped  and  took  that 
spirit  I  adore — 

Took  the  meek  and  lost  Elnore. 


And  Other  Poems.  101 

Ah,  the  coldness  of  her  ashes,  whence  no  light  of 

spirit  flashes! 
Ah?  the   silence  of  her  allies   that   shall   stir   0 

nevermore ! 
Ah,  the  paleness  of  the  roses  that  her  sopulcher 

incloses ! 
Ah,  the  tears  upon  the  roses  springing  from  her 

marble  door, 
Springing  from  her  vaulted  sepulcher,  and  from 

its  marble  door, 

And  the  dust  of  lost  Elnore ! 

Like  the  lightning  sudden  flashing, 
Startling,  daunting,  and  abashing, 
Are  these  verses  unto  lone 
Laying  bare  her  lover's  heart. 
And  unto  her  bosom  pressing 
That  sweet  volume  and  redressing, 
Much  divining,  still  more  guessing, 
She  looks  up  with  pallid  start ; 
And  her  lips  with  passion  tremble, 
And  a  moment  lose  all  art 
To  cry  out  or  aught  impart. 

"Can  it  be — 0  God  in  heaven! — 
That  the  wrong  is  all  forgiven, 
And  this  verse  is  as  a  message, 
Though  not  sent  me,  yet  received? 


IO2  lone, 

Is  his  pardon  in  these  verses, 
And  my  sin  no  more  accurses? 
May  I  hope  this  book  disperses 
All  the  shadow  that  so  grieved, 
And  that  he  was  drawing  nearer 
In  the  dark,  while  I  believed 
He  had  left  me,  tmreprieved  ? 


"Was  I  blind,  or  is  it  blindness 

To  believe  in  so  great  kindness — 

To  belierve  in  perfect  pardon 

By  that  heart  that  should  reprove? 

That  the  old  love  which  abounded 

Has  been  blessedly  refounded, 

And  the  evil  all  redounded 

To  my  pity  and  my  love; 

All  the  wrong  and  scorn  inverted 

Till  my  sins  perhaps  now  move 

More  than  once  my  guiltless  love? 

"Ah,  no,  no;  it  were  but  madness 
To  look  forward  to  such  gladness, 
For  he  surely  will  not  pardon 
One  that  struck  so  harsh  a  blow ! 
Or  perhaps  he  hath  forgiven 
Since  he  deems  my  soul  in  heaven, 
For  the  dead  are  soon  forgiven 


And  Other  Poems.  103 

But  the  living  hardly  so, 
And  he  will  retract  that  pardon 
When  in  time  he  comes  to  know 
That  I  have  not  been  laid  low !" 

Thus  sweet  lone  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow 
Trembles,  while  her  features  borrow 
Now  the  grayness  of  the  ashes, 
Now  the  scarlet  of  the  flame. 
But  again  she  reads  the  verses 
And  their  mystery  rehearses, — 
While  their  tenderness  immerses 
Her  bowed  face  in  tears  of  shame — 
And  the  verses  seem  to  lone 
Her  forgiveness,  though  the  same 
Bear  another  maiden's  name. 

"Ye  reflect  his  present  feeling — 
More  than  spoken  words  revealing," 
Now  she  whispers  to  the  verses, 
And  her  heart  with  faith  leaps  high. 
"But  ah  wherefore  still  delays  he? 
In  the  darkness  whereat  strays  he? 
Does  he  wait  the  moon,  or  stays  he 
Till  the  bitter  wind  shall  die? 
Has  he  gone  toward  the  ocean, 
Or  toward  the  hills  that  lie 
Northward,  with  their  weight  of  sky? 


104  lone, 

"Yet,  0  Bertram!,"  she  continues, 
"Though  it  crack  my  heart's  tense  sinews, 
I'll  have  patience  till  thy  coming, 
Be  it  one  hour  hence  or  four." 
But  wild  fears  arise  to  grieve  her, 
Deepened  by  her  pulses'  fever, 
And  in  some  brief  moments  leave  her 
Eestless  as  she  was  before: 
Horrid  fears  that  shake  her  bosom 
And  that  drive  her  to  the  door 
Where  the  cold  wind  chills  her  o'er. 

In  the  snow  are  footsteps  leading 
From  the  threshold,  but  proceeding 
Where  she  knows  not,  though  she  guesses 
On  toward  the  beating  tide. 
Seeing  which  her  heart  is  shaken 
With  the  dread  that  she's  forsaken — 
Bertrand  may  perhaps  have  taken 
Farewell  of  that  warren  wide, — 
With  the  day  his  farewell  taken 
And  gone  elsewhere  to  abide, 
Lost  to  her  without  a  guide ! 

Or  a  cruel  death  may  threat  him, 
And  with  fearful  odds  beset  him — 
On  the  snow  he  may  lie  helpless 
By  the  bitter  cold  subdued ! 


And  Other  Poems.  105 

Yea,  while  she  was  lowly  kneeling 

By  the  firelight  warm  and  healing, 

Death's  deep  sleep  may  have  been  stealing 

O'er  his  eyes  with  mists  bedewed, 

And  his  spirit  may  have  yielded 

To  Death's  angel  that  pursued 

Him  down  that  white  solitude! 


Yet,  in  following  some  distance, 
She  may  be  of  true  assistance, 
And  she  dares  to  seek  her  lover 
For  her  heart  is  filled  with  doubt. 
Though  the  evening  has  grown  colder 
She  is  warmer  now  and  bolder, 
And  she  throws  across  her  shoulder 
Bertrand's  cloak  and  ventures  out; 
Out  into  the  snow  she  ventures 
On  her  mission  most  devout — 
And  the  night  wraps  her  about. 

Frozen  waters  lie  before  her 
And  a  frozen  sky  is  o'er  her, 
In  the  east  the  moon  is  leaning 
Hard  against  the  frozen  hills. 
All  seems  frozen  save  the  ocean 
With  its  never-ceasing  motion ; 
All !  and  now  a  cold  prenotion 


io6  lone, 

Seizes  lone's  heart  and  chills, 
Chills  its  deep  and  warm  pulsations 
Like  an  icy  hand  that  stills 
What  it  touches,  and  then  kills! 

Strange  forebodings  of  a  danger 
Unto  which  she  seems  no  stranger, 
For  she  feels  that  she  has  suffered 
All  its  threatened  pains  before! 
Where,  she  knows  not,  yet  she  guesses — 
Searching  memory's  recesses — 
In  some  dream,  and  fear  oppresses 
Her  cold  bosom  more  and  more; 
More  and  more  her  heart  is  troubled 
As  she  hears  the  increasing  roar 
Of  the  surf  upon  the  shore. 

She  hath  trod  in  dreams  that  warren, 

Dim,  forsaken,  cold  and  barren, 

She  hath  heard  in  dreams  the  beating 

Of  yon  surf  upon  the  strand! 

She  hath  felt  this  night  around  her, 

Felt  in  dreams  the  winds  that  wound  her,- 

Heard  those  cries  that  now  confound  her 

Coming  o'er  the  waste  of  land! 

And — 0  God — hath  she  not  witnessed 

Him  that  struggles  in  quicksand, 

With  one  vain,  uplifted  hand ! 


And  Other  Poems.  107 

Like  to  one  whose  heart  is  daunted 
In  a  dream  by  horror  haunted, 
And  can  neither  cry  nor  struggle, 
loner's  rooted  to  the  ground. 
There  before  her  some  few  paces — 
Whence  no  foot  its  path  retraces — 
In  the  quicksand's  fell  embraces, 
Is  her  Lover — lost,  though  found! 
And  his  eyes  are  turned  toward  her, 
And  there  comes  a  bubbling  sound 
From  his  lips  by  waters  bound. 

For  some  hideous  moments — seeming 

As  an  age — pale  lone  stands  dreaming, 

Then  she  shrieks  the  name  of  "Bertrand !" — 

"Bertrand,  Bertrand,  speak  to  me!" 

But  no  answer  from  her  Lover, 

For  the  rising  waters  hover 

At  his  bubbling  lips,  and  cover 

All  his  mouth  as  she  may  see; 

But  as  yet  his  lifted  forehead, 

And  his  eyes  and  nose  are  free 

Of  the  quicksands  and  the  sea. 

In  the  presence  of  this  vision, 
Helpless  in  her  indecision, 
lone  reels  some  fearful  moments—- 
Now leaps  forward  with  wild  cry; 


lone, 

Now  leaps  forward,  vainly  thinking 
She  can  save  her  Love  from  sinking, 
But  she  feels  the  quicksands  linking 
Her  own  feet,  and  she  will  die, 
Die  a  death  too  quick  and  fearful 
Should  she  further  madly  try 
To  free  him  imprisoned  by. 

So  she  pauses  and  looks  'round  her, 
But  the  level  snows  confound  her — 
Nowhere  is  there  bough  or  cordage, 
She  may  cast  to  Bertrand's  hand; 
And  she  cannot  bring  assistance 
From  the  cot  far  in  the  distance — 
There  is  naught  to  make  resistance 
'Gainst  the  treacherous  quicksand: 
She  must  watch  the  salty  waters 
Rise  along  the  fatal  strand, 
With  no  power  to  command. 

Yea,  upon  the  loose  sands  kneeling, — 
With  white  face  to  God  appealing, — 
She  must  watch  the  consummation 
Hidden  by  no  kindly  cloud! 
Watch  the  waters — unretreating — 
'Gainst  her  Lover's  lips  still  beating, 
'Gainst  those  lips  shut  from  repeating 


And  Other  Poems.  109 

Prayers  beneath  their  wat'ry  shroud ! 
Watch  the  tide  as  it  comes  creeping 
To  his  forehead,  once  so  proud, 
Now  to  dark  oblivion  bowed! 

No!  her  love  than  fear  is  stronger, 
And  she  hesitates  no  longer — 
Starting  up  she  flings  her  body 
O'er  the  deadly  stretch  of  strand, 
And  a  moment  more  is  bending 
O'er  her  Love  with  death  contending, 
While  her  woman's  arms  are  lending 
All  the  strength  at  their  command! 
Strength  that  drags  her  Lover  upwards 
Some  few  inches  in  the  sand, 
And  sets  free  his  lips  and  hand. 

"Bertrand,  Bertrand,  let  me  save  thee, 
Since  I  wronged  thee  let  me  save  thee; 
Drag  me  down  and  tread  upon  me, 
And  escape  unto  the  shore! 
Look,  the  tide  is  rising  o'er  thee, 
But  the  shore  is  just  before  thee — 
Drag  me  down,  oh  I  implore  thee, 
And  escape  ere  all  is  o'er! 
I  have  wronged  thee  past  all  pardon, 
Shamed  that  honored  name  ye  bore, 
And  am  fit  to  love  no  more  J" 


i  ro  lone, 

"lone !"  Bertrand  cries  in  horror — 
In  his  face  not  hate  but  sorrow, — 
"0,  my  God,  thou  canst  not  save  me, 
And  thyself  must  perish  too! 
Quick !  I'll  cast  thee  to  the  ocean, 
And  perhaps  the  sea  in  motion 
Will  sustain  thee,  and  that  motion 
Bear  thee  from  this  awful  slew: 
Thou  art  to  thy  knees  in  quicksand — 
Yet  I  have  the  strength  of  two 
And  will  save  thee.     Thou  wast  true !" 

But  he  cannot,  though  he  borrow 

Strength  from  every  pulse  of  horror, 

For  pale  lone  clings  about  him, 

And  his  labors  are  in  vain: 

Vain,  too,  is  the  passionate  pleading 

Of  his  heart  with  sorrow  bleeding, 

Vain,  quite  vain,  for  still,  unheeding, 

lone  chooses  to  remain ; 

Neither  prayers  nor  force  can  move  her 

To  forsake  her  Love  in  pain, 

And  the  living  shore  regain. 

"Cease,  0  cease  thy  vain  endeavor, 
For  Fll  never  leave  thee — never! 
Here  lies  death,  but  there  lies  madness, 
And  I  rather  choose  to  die. 


And  Other  Poems.  in 

Let  me  be:  since  thou  must  perish, 
Here  I  also  choose  to  perish; 
Thou  art  all  I  love  and  cherish, 
And  I  care  not  Death  is  by. 
No,  no,  no,  thou  shalt  not  free  me ! — 
If  thou  dost  I'll  come  and  lie 
Here  when  thou  canst  not  defy." 

"  'Tis  too  late  for  prayer  or  endeavor ; 
Too,  too  late:  thou'rt  lost  forever!" 
Bertrand  moans  in  fearful  answer 
Straining  lone  to  his  face. 
"0,  my  God,  I  have  no  power 
To  defend  thee  in  this  hour ; 
I  am  down  and  now  must  cower 
Till  Death  strike  me  from  my  place! 
Ah,  I  feel  like  some  false  coward, 
Or  a  low  born  slave  and  base, 
And  would  hide  me  from  disgrace!" 

"Hush!"  pale  lone  answers  lowly, 

"I  am  now  encompassed  wholly 

And  'tis  no  dishonor  to  thee 

That  thou  canst  not  set  me  free. 

0,  but  say  that  I'm  forgiven, 

And  thou  hast  done  more  than  striven, 

Thou  hast  answered  a  prayer  for  heaven, 


112  lone, 

And  what  more  can  chivalry? 

Say  I'm  pardoned — though  'tis  selfish 

That  I  ask  so  much  of  thee 

In  this  hour  of  agony." 

"Ah,  sweet  lone,  if  'twere  given 
I  should  be  accurst  of  heaven, 
For  'tis  I  that  needs  be  pardoned, 
Pardoned  both  by  God  and  thee. 
I  have  wronged  thee,  for  that  vision 
Which  so  changed  the  law's  decision 
Was  a  strange,  prophetic  vision 
On  thy  part  of  times  to  be; 
'Twas  no  falsehood  as  I  deemed  it, 
But  indeed  ye  spoke  of  me 
As  one  speaks  in  prophecy. 

"On  yon  warren  I  was  halted 

By  a  robber  and  assaulted; 

So  I  slew  him — there  receiving 

Wounds  thou  hadst  described  before! 

All  my  face  was  pale  and  bloody, 

And  my  clothing  cut  and  muddy, 

Even  as  thou  saw  in  study 

On  Hispania's  far-off  shore; 

And — 0  God — I  knew  thee  guiltless 

When  I  saw  the  form  I  bore 

In  a  pool  I  bended  o'er !" 


And  Other  Poems.  113 

"Bertrand,  Bertrand,  then  thou  knowest, 

And  I'm  lifted  from  the  lowest !" 

lone  cries,  and,  softly  weeping, 

Touches  Bertrand  on  the  brow. 

"Then  thou  knowest  'twas  not  all  treason 

Which  I  spoke  in  that  sad  season ! — 

Yet  I  wronged  thee,  but  my  reason 

Was  subdued  by  frenzied  woe; 

0,  I  swore  it  was  no  vision, 

Yet  'twas  sorrow  and  a  foe 

That  made  me  to  stoop  so  low !" 

"Hush!''  her  lover  whispers  lowly, 

"I  will  trust  thee,  trust  thee  wholly; 

Through  my  doubt  ings  of  thy  honor 

I  have  suffered,  not  through  thee. 

Had  I  trusted  thee  erewhile 

I  had  never  fled  my  trial, 

Nor  become  a  weak  exile, 

Nor  had  perished  by  this  sea. 

I  am  weighed  and  am  found  wanting 

In  the  truth  of  constancy, 

And  the  Lord  hath  punished  me !" 

lone  bends  her  lips  to  answer, 
Words  of  humbleness  to  answer, 
But  the  waters  dash  against  them 
And  forever  they  are  sealed. — 


H4  lone, 

Now  her  eyes  with  startled  motion 

Turn  toward  the  beating  ocean, 

And  her  hands  as  in  devotion 

Are  uplifted  and  revealed : 

Now  she  lays  her  face  to  Bertrand's, 

And  her  pallor  is  concealed 

In  his  face  all  cold  and  steeled. 


Night,  and  no  sound !  save  the  beating 

Of  the  sea — its  dirge  repeating, 

Save  the  voice  of  winds  that  wander 

Down  the  lonely,  barren  strand: 

Night,  and  no  stars !  save  one  gleaming- 

Like  a  frozen  taper  gleaming — 

O'er  the  waste  that  now  lies  dreaming 

Dreams  that  none  may  understand: 

Night!  and  these  are  joined  forever 

In  the  quietness  of  the  sand, 

Face  'gainst  face,  and  hand  in  hand ! 


And  Other  Poems.  115 


ROSABELL. 


PART  I. 

O  dales  of  Arcady,  adieu ! 

I've  looked  upon  a  fairer  land: 

An  air  comes  to  me  from  its  strand, 

An  echo  from  its  mountains  blue. 

May  brings  her  roses  here  and  dreams; 
June  comes  upon  the  laden  air, 
Unclasps  the  jewels  in  her  hair 

And  revels  by  the  limpid  streams. 

The  undulating  meads  of  gold 
Are  newly  washed  in  freshest  dew, 
And  milder  winds  than  ever  blew 

In  Tempe  warm  the  leafy  mold. 


u6  lone, 

Far  off  the  deep-starred  western  sea, 
Dyed  by  unnumbered  sunsets  bright, 
Sends  back  a  silver  shaft  of  light 

To  Phoebe  o'er  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  gates  of  morning  in  the  east 
Are  founded  by  a  crystal  lake, 
Wherein  a  second  morn  doth  break, 

And  light  and  beauty  are  increast. 

The  gates  of  evening  sweep  the  sea 
And  open  outward  on  the  deep: 
Here  Day  goes  forth  and  balmy  Sleep 

Comes  in  with  spirit  company. 

Sweet  land,  thy  light  is  on  my  page; 
Thy  name  is  like  a  woman's  name — 
Beloved!     And  he  that  dare  defame 

A  wrestling  spirit  shall  engage. 

But  'tis  of  Rosabell  I  sing, 

Chiefly  of  her,  bright  land  and  free ; 

So  breathe  her  name  again  to  me, 
And  I  will  touch  a  sweeter  string. 

Of  Eosabell — and  Theodore! 

Ah,  Muse,  forget  not  his  dear  name, 
And  with  the  gold  of  summer  frame 

Phis  constant  pair  forevermore. 


And  Other  Poems.  117 

Ere  yonder  budded  tulip  sprung, 
Where  sucks  the  summer-nourished  bee 
A  bark  lay  dancing  on  the  sea, 

The  blue  and  sunny  waves  among. 

The  gentle  winds  that  kist  its  side 
And  bore  it  to  yon  silver  strand 
Brought  Summer  also  in  the  land, 

And  clothed  the  valleys  as  a  bride. 

At  twilight  from  this  white-winged  bark 
A  little  maiden  stepped  ashore 
And  danced  along  the  pebbled  floor 

Of  ocean,  with  eyes  all  dewy  dark. 

Then  upward  passed  from  those  moist  sands, 
Her  soft  eyes  closed  in  balmy  rest, 
The  sweetest  dreamer  at  the  breast 

Of  Sleep,  long  waiting  with  stretched  hands. 

Where  is  the  mother  there  is  home. 

And  quietly  through  the  night  she  slept, 
Nor  opened  her  dewy  eyes,  nor  wept 

That  she  had  crossed  the  ocean's  foam, 

And  breathed  no  more  her  native  air; 
Nor  smelt  the  fragrant  heliotrope 
That  used  to  climb  her  casement  ope 

And  turn  to  her  its  petals  fair. 


n8  lone, 

Then  morning  came  with  rosy  hand 
And  waked  her  to  the  Southern  change, 
And  all  was  novel,  all  was  strange : — 

Ah,  so  unlike  her  native  land ! 

But  shade  hy  shade  it  passed  away — 
The  wonder  and  the  novelty, 
And  dancing  by  the  sunny  sea 

Or  with  her  gentle  mates  at  play, 

Her  distant  home  became  a  dream 
And  was  forgotten  with  the  year, 
Forgotten  with  the  childhood  tear 

That  fell  at  parting  in  extreme 

Of  tender  sorrow.     So  the  rose, 
Transplanted  to  a  warmer  bed, 
Wooes  but  the  zephyrs  overhead, 

Nor  of  its  native  bower  knows. 

Then  gentle  Spring  led  Summer  on, 
And  each  led  Beauty  by  the  hand, 
And  there  was  fragrance  in  the  land 

From  thyme  and  lind  and  new-mown  lawn. 

Then  golden  Autumn  flushed  the  west, 
And  faded  like  the  setting  sun; 
But  Winter  scarcely  had  begun 

Ere  Spring  returned  with  flowered  vest. 


And  Other  Poems.  1 1 

Twice  seven  times  the  golden  spring 
Rekindled  then  the  firmament, 
Twice  seven  Summers  came  and  went, 

Such  as  the  skies  of  Cashmere  bring: 

And  Rosabell  walked  through  the  vale 
And  gathered  flowers  for  her  hair, 
And  knew  that  she  was  very  fair 

With  scarlet  lips  and  forehead  pale. 

And  gracious  pride  was  in  her  heart; 
A  lovely  thing  seen  through  the  sphere 
And  depth  of  woman's  eyes,  when  clear 

And  large,  and  lustrous  to  impart. 

And  love  she  knew,  and  wreathed  her  hair, 
By  bright  reflection  in  the  brook, 
With  starry  buds  and  bells  that  shook 

Their  dews  upon  her  shoulders  fair. 

A  lover's  footprint  in  the  vale, 

A  lover's  footprint  on  the  hill ! — 
Ah,  was  it  not  enough  to  fill 

Her  life  with  romance,  and  prevail — 

While  Summer  still  was  in  the  bloom— 
Against  her  heart,  though  fortified 
By  virgin  modesty  and  pride, 

And  every  foreign  thought  entomb ! 


120  lone, 

From  Love  s  bright  casement  she  had  ta'en 
Her  first  sweet  glimpses  of  the  world, 
While  'round  her  lustrous  forehead  curled 

The  passion  flower,  unprofane. 

And  dear  those  glimpses  to  her  heart, 
And  trebly  dear  young  Theodore, 
Who  made  her  then  and  evermore 

The  Eros  of  his  life  and  art. 

"Ah,  it  is  kindness  to  be  fair, 

'Tis  kindness  passing  dear,"  she  said, 
As  o'er  the  running  stream  was  spread 

The  beauty  of  her  loosened  hair. 

Dark  hair,  dark-clustering  and  fine, 
The  hair  of  Miranda  in  her  youth, 
Half  veiling  eyes  of  liquid  truth 

Dark,  deep,  and  sacred  to  the  Nine. 

"But  to  be  loved  is  more  than  kind, 
Is  more  than  beauty !"    Here  she  looks 
To  heaven,  glancing  from  the  brooks, 

And  heaven  seems  of  equal  mind. 

"Why  tarriest  thou,  my  Theodore? 

O  what  excuse  mak'st  thou  thy  heart? 

And  dost  thou  play  the  laggard's  part 
Who  split  the  moments  heretofore 


And  Other  Poems.  121 

"And  vowed  each  half  eternity 

When  thou  wast  absent  from  my  side? — 
The  laggard's  part!     0  woe  betide, 

'Twere  better  that  thou  ill  shouldst  be ! 

"0  sweet  to  nurse  a  lover  ill, 

But  death  to  nurse  a  sickened  faith! 

Ah,  better  to  look  on  thy  wraith 
Than  on  thy  love,  dead,  cold,  and  still ! 

"The  roses  dream  at  twilight' s  gate — 
0  pluck  them,  Love,  and  come  to  me: 
The  sun  broods  o'er  the  sunset  sea — 

0  share  its  beauty  ere  too  late. 

"Blue  hills  have  kissed  the  bluer  sky 
And  bid  'Good  night!'    The  silver  bow, 
New  bent  in  heaven,  'gins  to  glow, 

And,  Love,  the  hour  of  rest  draws  nigh. 

"The  mocking-bird  is  in  the  thorn — 
Ah,  let  him  mock  thy  sweet  'Good  night  !' 
Until  the  morning's  golden  light, 

Then  all  day  long  mock  thy  'Good  morn !' " 

She  paused,  and  footsteps  filled  the  space, 
The  footsteps  of  young  Theodore. 
"Sweet  Love/'  he  smiled,  "they  should  adore 

Who  cometh  late  with  warmer  grace." 


122  lone, 

"Ay  me!"  she  said,  with  eyes  withdrawn 
And  fixed  upon  the  senseless  ground, 
"Time  lost  in  love  is  never  found; 

'Tis  lost — 'tis  lost,  'tis  mourned;  quite  gone! 

"Hast  thou  another  love  than  me 
That  thou  didst  linger  in  the  vale? 
Or  was  it  hut  the  nightingale 

That  held  thee  spellbound  o'er  the  leaP 

"Xay,  Love,  no  other  love  is  mine, 
Or  if  another  love  there  be 
I  love  that  other  love  for  thee, 

Which  is  Olympus'  sacred  Nine. 

"As  winds  a  brook  through  garden  ways 
Reflecting  heaven's  image  fair, 
Thou  knowest  that  this  love  I  bear 

rA  linked  light  winds  through  my  lays." 

"Thou  lovest  numbers  more  than  me," 
Fond  Rosabell  made  low  reply: 
"  'Twere  better  that  thy  Muse  should  die 

Than  steal  thy  love  away  from  thee. 

"Bright  summer  and  the  fragrant  spring, 
The  morning  and  the  evening  star, 
Thou  lovest  not  for  what  they  are 

But  that  of  them  thou  mayest  sing. 


And  Other  Poems.  123 

"And  losing  me  thou  wouldst  not  faint 
That  thou  hadst  lost  a  living  love, 
But  something  worshipped  far  above — 

A  subject  for  thy  Muse  to  paint !" 

"Honor  the  verse  which  honors  thee," — 
Thus  Theodore  with  tender  mien, — 
"And  where  thou  glean'st  delight  0  glean 

Forbearance  for  some  frailty." 

"Alas!"  fond  Kosabell  replied, 

As  heaved  her  breast  with  stifled  moan, 
"How  shall  thy  honeyed  lines  atone 

For  bitter  absence  from  my  side  ? 

"Than  linked  verse  or  stately  prose 
Thy  voice  more  pleasant  is  and  bland, 
And  one  sweet  primrose  from  thy  hand 

Were  more  than  Fancy's  scentless  rose. 

"Then  cease  to  sound  Parnassus'  spring 
And  sound  a  loving  woman's  heart ! 
The  lover's  not  the  poet's  part 

Be  thine,  ere  all's  past  altering." 

"0,  Love/'  thus  Theodore  in  pain, 
"What  though  I  tarry  from  thy  side 
And  make  the  wind  or  beating  tide 

An  hollow  ear  to  mark  my  strain? — 


124  lone, 

"Thou  art  my  song  and  what  inspires, 
Thou  art  the  music  of  my  lines ; 
And  thou  the  Heart  my  verse  enshrines, 

The  spring  of  all  my  best  desires. 

"Thou  art  the  white  light  of  my  soul, 
The  pole-star  of  my  spirit's  bark ! — 
Ah,  Eosabell,  thou  dost  not  mark, 

Nor  judge  me  fair,  nor  judge  me  whole !" 

And  so  these  gentle  lovers  met, 
And,  meeting,  quarreled  without  cause, 
And  drew  apart,  and  there  was  pause, 

A  pause,  it  seemed,  without  regret. 

But  lovers'  quarrels  beneath  the  moon 
Are  neither  madness  nor  are  sin ; 
They're  something,  nothing;  all  akin 

To  idle  dreams  when  no  hearts  swoon. 

So  music  fled  back  to  their  lips, 

And  love  and  gladness  shared  their  speech, 

And  either  softly  did  beseech 
Forgiveness  for  his  love's  eclipse. 

And  it  was  twilight !  O'er  the  sea 
The  march  of  golden  stars  began, 
And  gentle  winds  arose  to  fan 

The  new-blown  musk  by  vale  and  lea. 


And  Other  Poems.  125 

'Twas  twilight,  and  bright  Phoebe  moved 
Toward  her  throne  with  gentle  pace : 
The  deep  looked  in  her  lustrous  face 

And  kindled  like  a  thing  that  loved ! 

'Twas  twilight,  and  the  distance  seemed 

To  empty  into  visions  wide 

Of  mystic  mountains  swilled  by  the  tide, 
Such  as  in  childhood  we  have  dreamed. 

0,  Nature,  from  my  halting  hand 

Take  thou  the  pencil,  for  I  feel 

My  inability  to  reveal 
The  beauty  of  this  twilight  land. 

Take  thou  the  pencil  and  paint  on! 

But  chiefly  paint  this  loving  pair, 

In  colors  that  thou  only  dare 
To  mix  and  mingle,  and  anon 

Thy  poet  shall  resume  his  part, 
And  follow  thee  as  one  who  knew, 
And,  knowing,  wrought  e'en  to  the  dew 

Dim  hidden  in  the  rose's  heart. 

Paint  thou.  the  parting  low  and  sweet 

Of  Eosabell  and  Theodore ; 

Paint  thou  bright  Phoebe  bending  o'er, 
And  waters  shining  at  their  feet. 


126  lone, 

Great  Artist,  paint  thy  tender  face 

Soft  listening  to  their  sweet  "Good  night !" 
And  mingle  with  thy  warmth  the  light 

Both  thine  to  radiate  and  trace. 

Paint  thou  these  lovers  gone  to  rest, 
And  close  the  first  part  of  my  dream ; — 
One  touch  by  thee  will  half  redeem 

The  verse,  and  give  it  interest. 


PART   II. 

Wake  not  the  dreaming  Hours,  0  Morn, 
Upon  their  heads  is  Sorrow's  crown, 
While  wreathed  about  their  foreheads'  frown 

The  wormwood  twines  the  nettle  thorn ! 

Withhold  thy  flame,  ye  golden  sun; 

Thou  light' st  but  Sorrow  to  her  thorns, 
For  Hope's  sweet  wreath  no  more  adorns 

Fair  Rosabell,  the  lovely  One! 

At  midnight,  by  the  silver  sea, 
Where  poets  love  to  walk  and  dream, 
Young  Theodore,  in  love's  extreme, 

Addressed  bright  Phoebe,  ardently. 


And  Other  Poems.  127 

Bright  Phoebe,  Queen  of  love  and  night, 
That  was  with  Beauty  from  the  first ! 
And  all  his  spirit  was  athirst 

And  hungered,  e'en  in  love's  despite. 

Hungered  for  that  which  many  name 
But  only  Spirits  comprehend, 
So  far  its  fineness  doth  transcend 

Man,  to  his  sorrow  and  his  shame. 

They  call  it  "Ideality," 

Who  call  it  wisely,— "Ideal  love !" 

Which  lifts  the  spirit  far  above 
The  passions  of  humanity. 

At  midnight,  by  the  silver  sea, 

Young  Theodore,  communing,  walked, 
When  from  the  deeper  shadows  stalked 

Three  strangers,  speaking  sullenly. 

With  straining  thongs  they  bound  his  hands, 
With  bitter  goad  they  prest  him  on, 
And  ere  the  breaking  of  the  dawn 

Bore  him  away  for  foreign  lands. 

In  Cyprus  he  remained  a  slave! — 
They  counted  o'er  their  gains  as  gain 
These  evil  Three,  nor  felt  they  pain, 

And  crost  again  the  ocean's  wave. 


128  lone, 

Weep,  weep,  ye  starry  buds  and  bells, 
Turn  all  your  silver  dew  to  tears; 
And  pour  from  out  your  hollow  spheres 

The  light  of  dawn,  ye  asphodels ! 

And,  0  awake,  ye  mocking-bird, 
Awake,  awake,  for  Sorrow  wakes ! 
And  mourn  with  Kosabell,  who  aches 

With  horrid  fear,  and  dreads  each  word 

As  tidings  of  a  stricken  Love, 

Since,  living,  he  would  not  delay 
Upon  his  promised  bridal  day, 

But  hasten  swift  as  homing  dove. 

"He  cometh  not  I"  she  softly  said : 

"He  cometh  not !"  her  maidens  sighed. 
"He  is  delayed ;  let  us  not  chide  I" 

"Absent,  but  coming :  lift  thy  head  I" 

But  Night  and  not  the  Bridegroom  comes, 
And  Sorrow  leads  the  Bride  apart : 
Alone,  and  with  a  broken  heart, 

Almost  her  gentle  life  succumbs. 

But  hope  dies  not  within  a  night, 
And  when  the  golden  morning  broke 
She  smiled,  as  though  her  lover  spoke, 

And  passed  into  the  growing  light. 


And  Other  Poems.  129 

She  looked  upon  the  albatross, 
The  albatross  looked  on  the  sail 
That  bore  young  Theodore,  all  pale, 

Down  love's  horizon  and  across. 

'Mid  hyacinth  and  geraniums 

She  walked,  and  wreathed  her  tresses  dear : 
"It  would  delight  him  were  he  here, 

It  will  delight  him  when  he  comes," 

She  said,  and  kist  the  flowers  hard 
That  fell  about  her  shoulders  fair : 
And  afterwards  she  spread  her  hair 

Above  the  brook  with  sunlight  barred. 

Her  image  from  the  waters  smiled, 

And  softly  she  began  to  sing 

A  roundelay  of  love  and  spring, 
And  thus  the  morning  hours  beguiled. 

Then  twilight  came,  and  o'er  her  face 

A  shadow  not  of  evening  fell ; 

A  shadow  morn  would  not  dispel, 
Nor  noon-day  soften,  nor  spring  efface. 

"0  God,  how  near  is  life  to  death !" 

She  moaned — "For  I  must  think  him  dead ; 
The  glory  from  his  eyes  quite  fled, 

And  from  his  lips  the  loving  breath. 


130  lone, 

"A  step  in  darkness  and  he  sank 

Into  the  river's  risen  tide ; 

Xo  hand  to  aid,  no  light  to  guide, 
It  bore  him  swiftly  from  the  bank ! 

"The  seaweed  clings  about  his  breast 
In  cold  embraces,  while  my  arms 
Are  empty.  Given  to  rude  storms, 

I  may  not  mourn  above  his  rest. 

"Nor  look  again  upon  his  face, 

Nor  touch  his  gentle  brow — though  dead 
Nor  teach  the  cypress  how  to  spread 

Its  shade  above  his  resting  place. 

"I  have  nowhere  to  greet  him  dead — 
Love  is  denied  me  and  love's  grave ! 
The  Hand  hath  taken  that  once  gave, 

And  taken  all  with  life's  shorn  thread! 

"0  God,  I  knew  that  I  must  bear 
And  I  am  willing  to  submit, 
But  ah,  not  this!     I  am  unfit 

And  cannot  live  through  such  despair. 

"Give  me  to  blindness  and  disgrace 
But  let  me  touch  his  hand  again ; 
Bring  me  into  the  viper's  den 

But  let  me  look  upon  his  face. 


And  Other  Poems.  131 

"Uncrown  me  of  all  human  trust 
But  give  him  quick  into  my  arms ; 
Let  Death  awake  his  rude  alarms 

But  give  his  spirit  back — or  dust. 

"Ah,  any — anything  but  this ; 
All  evil  that  is  felt  or  feared 
Be  mine  to  bear,  uneased,  uncheered, 

But  0  give  back  the  face  I  miss!" 

She  ceased,  and  loving  friends  drew  near 
Who  sought  to  comfort  and  sustain, 
But  idle  was  their  love  and  vain, 

Nor  wiped  away  one  cadent  tear. 

Hope  had  no  healing  for  her  heart 
And  sweet  religion  had  no  balm, 
Yet  meek  she  was  and  strangely  calm, — 

But  sought  to  be  alone,  apart. 

The  second  evening  came  and  went 
But  without  tidings  of  her  Love, 
Though  twenty  searched  the  hills  above 

And  twenty  to  the  vales  were  sent. 

Day  followed  day,  but  brought  no  hope, 
Night  followed  'night  without  surcease, 
And  Kosabell  pra}^ed  for  release, 

And  darkling  for  Death's  hand  did  grope. 


132  lone, 

She  peered  into  the  crystal  stream 
To  mark  her  beauty,  ah,  no  more ! — 
She  searched  for  her  dead  Theodore, 

With  upturned  face  as  in  a  dream! 

She  hastened  to  the  summer  vale 
To  gather  flowers,  ah,  no  more! 
She  searched  for  her  dead  Theodore, 

With  glazed  eye  and  forehead  pale ! 

One  handful  of  his  dust  in  vain 

She  craved,  to  plant  the  rose  above, 
Who  late  asked  Heaven  for  her  Love, 

Warm,  living,  without  hurt  or  stain. 

But  growing  humble  with  the  year 
She  asked  but  knowledge  of  his  grave— 
Whether  'twas  on  the  land  or  wave, 

Though  she  might  never  draw  more  near. 

Neither  her  Love  nor  yet  his  dust 
She  asked  of  Heaven,  but  to  know 
Where  her  Love's  body  was  laid  low, 

And  Heaven's  silence  seemed  unjust. 

Then  from  the  heavens  passed  a  light 
As  from  a  casement  some  loved  face, 
And  Winter  shut  the  skies  a  space — 

Shut  as  a  casement  for  a  night. 


And  Other  Poems.  133 

Then  Spring  once  more  with  glowing  hand 
Baptized  the  rose  in  dew  and  flame, 
And  to  that  sweet  baptism  came 

Hope,  with  the  almond  in  her  hand. 

She  took  the  aloe  from  Love's  brow 
And  set  a  crown  of  roses  there, 
And  in  Love's  gentle  hand,  all  bare, 

She  placed  her  budded  almond  bough. 

"It  cannot  be  that  he  is  dead/' 
Thus  Rosabell  amid  the  field, 
"Or  else  my  searching  had  revealed 

Where  death  prepared  my  true  Love's  bed. 

"It  cannot  be  that  he  is  dead, 
Or  else  his  spirit  would  return 
From  where  the  newly  dead  sojourn, 

And  hover  o'er  the  bridal  bed. 

"Immortal  Spring  her  roses  gave 
For  him  to  paint,  not  for  his  bier, 
And  Summer  stoopt  but  to  endear 

His  sunny  verse,  not  deck  his  grave. 

"He  was  an  instrument  apart, 

For  Beauty's  touch  and  Beauty's  hand 
Kept  sacred;  and  death  could  not  command 

Nor  crack  the  lute  strings  of  his  heart. 


134  Ion€> 

"'The  stately  lilies  spring  and  glow 
Like  tapers  on  the  twilight  lea, 
Tall  tapers  lighting  Faith  to  me, 

Within  her  hand  the  hawthorn  bough. 

"Hope,  like  the  winter  bird,  returns, 
That  buildeth  at.  my  open  door, 
And  all  the  day  doth  sing  and  soar, 

Nor  ceases  till  bright  sunset  burns. 

"Xo,  no,  I  cannot  think  him  dead — 

Though  weakness  trusts  'tis  madness  doubts; 
And  ere  in  sweet  and  purple  routs 

The  violets  come,  his  gentle  tread 

"Shall  press  the  lawn  beside  my  door, 
His  eager  hand  be  on  the  latch, 
And  from  that  moment  I  shall  snatch 

A  light  to  guide  me  evermore !" 

"He  comes !"  she  whispers  to  the  rose ; 
The  rose  looks  upward  in  her  face 
Thanking  bright  June  with  tender  grace 

Is  bending  o'er,  and  warmer  glows. 

"He  comes,  ye  stream ;  comes  as  of  old : 
Prepare  to  see  his  face  again: 
Leave  thou  the  lowlands  and  the  fen 

And  make  thy  bed  on  sands  of  gold! 


And  Other  Poems.  135 

"He  comes,  ye  stars  of  summer  night ! 
Kiss  ye  dark  places  with  the  new& 
And  make  them  glow.     He  comes,  ye  dews; 

His  path  is  o'er  ye  as  the  light ! 

"Ye  hills  that  see  my  Love  afar, 

Whisper  his  coming  to  the  vale — 

In  twilight  waits  the  nightingale 
And  trembles  like  a  quiring  star 

"To  hymn  his  return.  And  thou  sweet  lark 
That  drink'st  the  dew  at  heaven's  gate, 
Unto  two  worlds  with  song  elate 

Publish  the  coming  of  his  bark !" 

Informed  by  hope  as  some  sweet  wine 

Fair  Rosabell  gave  way  to  joy 

That  knew  nor  surcease  nor  alloy, 
But  deeper  grew  and  more  divine. 

The  current  of  her  thoughts  had  turned 

And  into  brighter  channels  passed ; 

No  more  her  spirit  was  o'ercast 
But  glowed  with  every  light  that  burned, 

So  turns  aside  a  stream  that  flows 
Through  channels  of  a  darkened  fen, 
And  glides  o'er  fields  Elysian 

With  light  upon  it  from  the  rose. 


136  lone, 

Once  more  she  wreathed  her  loosened  hair 
With  flowers  of  the  middle  Spring, 
And  taught  sweet  Echo  how  to  sing 

And  wake  soft  laughter  in  the  air. 

Once  more  above  the  running  stream — 
Her  beauty  flushed  with  gentle  pride? — 
She  hung  enamoured,  as  if  she  spied 

Reflected  there  her  dearest  dream. 

But,  ah,  no  visionary  light 

Transfixed  her.  but  her  own  face, 

Her  own  sweet  eyes  and  forehead's  grace, 

And  sloping  shoulders  smooth  and  white. 

And  why  she  gazed  thus  earnestly 
Was  partly  that  her  face  was  dear 
To  Theodore,  and  partly  fear 

That  grief  had  wrought  deformity. 

And  partly  that  the  human  face, 
Divine,  is  dearer  to  the  heart 
That  hath  known  sorrow ;  and  in  part 

'Twas  naught  but  play  and  maiden  grace. 

Thus  Spring  returned  and  with  her  Hope, 
And  Summer  met  them  in  the  dell, 
And  bid  the  gentle  Spring  farewell 

But  parted  not  with  gracious  Hope. 


And  Other  Poems.  137 

And  flowers  sprung  at  Summer's  feet 
And  little  children  played  in  the  beam, 
And  all  the  land  became  a  dream 

Of  color  and  of  childhood  sweet. 

So  leave  the  gentle  "Rosabell, 

With  childhood  laughter  in  her  ear, 
Bright  waters  at  her  feet  and  clear, 

And  in  her  hand  the  asphodel. 

A  hark  is  dnnoing  on  the  sea 

And  leads  through  golden  floods  her  Love, 

Her  Theodore; — while  far  above 
T!r.>  lark  pours  forth  its  melody! 


138  lone. 


FLORENCE, 


PAET  I. 

I. 

By  the  Tiber  dwelt  a  maiden,  nobly  born — 

Ah,  fair  she  was  as  a  rose  by  Fancy's  spring ! — 

Dwelt  in  a  garden  where  the  golden  morn 
Winged  music  from  the  palace  of  the  king; 

Sweet  prelude  to  the  huntsman's  silver  horn 
Shaking  the  drowsy  dew  from  falcon's  wing; 

Sweet  prelude  that  the  Prince  aloft  did  wake, 

Touching  the  morning  harp  for  Music's  blessed 
sake. 

II. 

She  wore  the  purple  in  her  lovely  eyes, 

Twin  stars  of  vesper  'neath  her  morning  hair, 

And  ruled  with  song,  with  laughter,   and  with 

sighs 
A  little  kingdom  wonderfully  fair, 


And  Other  Poems.  139 

A  pleasant  garden  seat  'neath  perfect  skies, 
High  walled  about  and  open  to  the  air, 
Where  sweet  birds  sang  and  fragrant  flowers  grew, 
And  love  came  early,  and  sorrows  not  at  all,  or  few. 


III. 


Florence,  they  named  her  in  this  garden  seat, 
And  sweeter  to  the  mother  faint  and  wan 

Than  "roses"  spelt  in  roses  at  her  feet 

That  name  became;  but  ere  the  summer's  dawn 

The  mother  faded  with  the  drowsy  heat 

Of  Phoebus  brooding  o'er  the  sloping  lawn, 

And  left  sweet  Florence  to  the  loving  care 

Of  hands  that  smoothed  back  that  dying  mother's 
hair. 


IV. 


Twilight  in  heaven,  morn  within  her  hair, 
Morning  in  heaven,  dusk  within  her  eye, 

Sweet  Florence  grew — ah,  dear  above  compare ! — 
And  moved  amid  the  flowers  of  splendid  dye 

Bright  as  a  Naiad  of  the  fountain  there, 

Or  looked  at  morning  from  her  lattice  high 

Like  a  high-born  maiden  looking  o'er  the  sea 

From  casement  set  in  the  gold  of  olden  poesy. 


140  lone, 

V. 

Within  the  garden,  like  a  spirit  bright, 
A  fountain  clomb  to  heaven  with  its  dew, 

Ever  to  fall  to  earth  inweaved  with  light 
And  star  the  flowers  that  around  it  grew. 

In  twilight's  front  the  Bird  of  love  and  night 
Thrilled  the  dim  foliage  of  the  avenue; 

And  here  the  morning  lark  rose  up  elate, 

And  found  the  earthly  love  it  sung  at  heaven's 
gate ! 

VI. 

Twilight  in  heaven,  morn  within  her  heart, 
Sweet  Florence  prest  the  dewy  leaves  among: 

A  tender  kinship  was  her  utmost  art 

Who  trained  the  flowers  as  on  threads  of  song 

To  climb  above  the  fountain  and  impart 

A  fragrance  such  as  hanging  walls  prolong, 

A  fragrance  and  a  light  that  led  the  Prince 

Unto  that  garden  the  dews  of  song  have  watered 
since. 

VII. 

Back  from  the  chase  at  break  of  golden  ere 
The  Prince  with  revelry  and  consort  came: 

A  favorite  falcon  clung  unto  his  sleeve, 
Veiling  its  drowsy  eye  'gainst  sunset  flame; 


And  Other  Poems.  141 

Before  him  went  two  heralds  to  receive 

With  gates  wide  thrown  and  sovereign  acclaim 
The  Nobles  coming  from  the  morning  chase, 
And  Heir  to  Italy's  throne  and  Heaven's  tender 
grace. 

VIII. 

Past  tower,  moat,  and  grange  the  Prince  rode  on: 
Afar  the  bright  imperial  palace  shone 

Like  adamant  hewn  from  the  golden  sun — 
Throned  on  a  starry  eminence,  alone ! 

But  soon,  upon  the  upland's  verdant  lawn, 

The  Prince  and  consort  came  unto  the  stone, 

The  sculptured  stone  and  column  of  the  gate 

That  led  unto  the  gardens  where  sweet  Florence 
sate. 


IX. 


She  sate  within  the  dusk  of  hanging  walls 
Singing  a  ditty   of  delicious  glee: 

Melodious  as  the  blind  Philomel  calls 
Unto  the  Rose  he  nevermore  shall  see, 

It  came  o'er  the  Prince's  ear,  whose  marble  halls 
Flushed  never  with  such  dulcet  harmony; 

And  hushed  was  the  revel  of  his  train, 

So  sweet  the  roundelay,  so  tender  the  refrain. 


142  I6ne, 

X. 

The  lark  hath  not  one  feather  tipped  with  gold, 

Philomel,  midst  the  dew,,  no  silver  wing; 
The  lyre-bird  doth  the  April  bow  enfold, 

Yet  in  despite  its  beauty  cannot  sing — 
But  the  painting  of  a  song  which  we  behold 

Limned  on  the  bloomy  spray  of  azure  Spring : — 
Only  in  maidens  doth  the  kinship  dwell — 

Both  wondrous  beauty  and  the  voice  of  Philo- 
mel. 

XL 

So  thought  the  list'ning  Prince,  and  deemed  her 

fair 

Who  sate  in  twilight  and  sung  up  the  dusk, 
The  dewy  dusk,  when  on  the  blinded  air, 
As  fleeting  as  the  trodden  violet's  musk, 
All  splendid  dyes  dissolve  which  flowers  wear, 

Leaving  bright  buds  as  dull  as  winter's  husk; 
But  woman's  beauty,  glowing  through  the  night, 
Fades  not  at  shut  of  eve  when  fade  the  flowers  of 
light. 

XII. 

Within  the  dusk  of  hanging  walls  she  sate 

Singing  a  ditty  of  delicious  glee, 
But  soon  the  silver  moon  at  twilight's  gate 

Shot  lustre  through  its  cloudy  canopy — 


And  Other  Poems.  143 

As  though  a  star  should  suddenly  dilate 
Into  bright  Phoebe  o'er  a  silver  sea, 
Sweet  Florence  glowed  upon  the  Prince's  soul, 
And  Love,  like  Aidefm's  rose,  sprung  into  perfect 
whole ! 

XIII. 

The  silver  moon  looked  in  her  happy  eyes — 
Back  to  her  lustrous  hair  a  glory  came 

Like  morn  of  Italy  when  perfect  skies 

With  amber  burn,  and  rose  and  golden  flame; 

Imbued  with  rose-bloom  and  hyacinthine  dyes 
The  virgin  snows  returned  to  her  fair  frame: — 

The  silver  moon  looked  in  her  happy  eyes 

Kindling  her  face  and  breast  with  light  from  Par- 
adise. 

XIV. 

"She  is  a  spirit,  and  the  night  is  charmed; 

Look  not  upon  this  Dian,  or  ye  die  I" 
"She  is  a  spirit,  yet  be  not  alarmed — 

Whom  Dian  slays  hath  life  by  her  fair  eye!'7 
But  'gainst  their  argument  the  Prince  was  armed 

And  answered  on  the  burthen  of  a  sigh: 
"Ah,  she  is  human  with  her  length  of  hair! 
Ah,  she  is  human  with  her  virgin  bosom  bare !" 


144  lone, 


XV. 

"She  is  a  spirit  and  a  woman  too- 

A  nymph  to  sing,  a  maiden  fond  to  glow ! 

But  haste,  sweet  Prince,  and  bid  the  night  adieu 
From  off  thy  starry  battlements,  for  lo ! 

The  sun  is  brighter  on  Atlanta  blue 

Than  on  yon  Mediterranean's  lulled  flow: 

And  look,  my  gentle  Prince,  the  silver  moon 

Hath  veiled  its  glimpses  sweet  in  dim  and  cloudy 
swoon." 

XVI. 

"Thou  counsel'st  well,  my  Lord;  lead  on  to  rest: 
'Twere  rude  to  linger  here  with  laggard  feet." 

And,  turning  from  the  gate,  the  Prince  addrest 
Himself  and  consort  to  the  castle  seat. 

Sweet  Florence  lingered  like  a  parting  guest 
In  the  dim  twilight  of  her  hushed  retreat, 

Then  smiled  a  virgin  at  her  garden  gate 

But  blushed  a  Princess  in  the  secret  glass  of  Fate ! 

XVII. 

"Love,  like  the  rose,  may  blossom  by  the  throne 
And  princes  wear  it  on  coronation  day: 

Love,  like  the  rose,  by  cottage  gates  hatli  blonrn. 
And  like  the  fragrant  rose  on  bloomy  spray 


And  Other  Poems.  145 

Hath  been  transplanted  to  the  sculptured  stone 
Where  kings  have  sate  and  ruled  with  gentle 

sway: 

To  love,  alike  as  to  the  summer  rose, 
Enough  is  morning  dew  and  light  that  comes  and 
goes. 

XVIII. 

"Upon  the  forelock  of  the  warrior's  steed 
Love  rides  invisible  and  guides  the  rein: 

Within  the  hollow  of  the  minstrel's  reed 
Love  shapes  to  ecstaey  the  tender  strain: 

Upon  Love's  honey  dew  the  poets  feed, 
Till  life  is  but  an  echo  and  refrain 

Of  silver  rnusic  to  the  west-wind  sung, 

Of  song  and   verse   composed  the   pleasant  hills 
among." 

XIX. 

Thus  eloquently,  touched  by  lyric  fire, 

The  Prince  soliloquized  in  pleasant  grove; 

And  in  the  stilly  night  he  waked  the  lyre* 

Of  passion,  while  bright  Venus  shone  above, 

Xor  left  one  string  un  jar  red.     The  golden  wire 
Shook  with  the  full  diapason  of  a  new  love  !— 

Tie  seemed  compact  of  music  and  sweet  fire. 

With  lids  that  did  not  weary,  hands  that  did  not 
tire. 


146  lone, 

XX. 

"Come  o'er  Rome's  seven  pleasant  hills,  0  Miorn, 
And  look  upon  the  waters  lulled  in  sleep ! 

Come  through  the  silver  moon's  inverted  horn 
And  hang  thy  herald  in  the  azure  deep ! 

Come  with  thy  forehead  bright  and  locks  unshorn 
And  light  the  temples  dim  upon  the  steep ! 

Come  thou,  0  golden  Morn,  and  plant  the  throne 

Where  Day  shall  sit  in  beauty  when  sable  Night 
hath  flown ! 

XXI. 

"Come  up  the  pleasant  vales,  0  rosy  Morn, 
Thy  sure  foot  planted  in  the  silver  dew, 

And  from  the  eglantine  and  white  hawthorn 
Loose  thy  caged  larks  to  sing  in  heaven  blue ! 

Come  to  the  stately  lilies  that  adorn 

The  hills  of  twilight,  bidding  Night  adieu ! 

Come  thou,  0  rosy  Morn,  and  ope  the  gate 

That  leadeth  to  those  gardens  where  my  Soul  doth 
wait! 

XXII. 

"Come  from  the  champak  to  the  rose,  0  Morn, 
From  India's  plain  to  vales  of  Italy! 

Come  from  the  silver  palm  to  white  hawthorn. 
From  banks  of  poppy  to  banks  ol  narcissi ! 


And  Other  Poems.  147 

Come  with  thy  dewy  fingers  and  adorn 

The  gardens  of  Tiber,  and  thou  shalt  be  to  me 
A  brighter  morn  than  ever  yet  hath  sprung 
In  Tempe,  or  the  purple  peaks  of  song  among  1 


XXIII. 

"Lo,  like  a  cherub  standing  in  the  sun 

In  the  full  splendor  of  his  wings  unshorn, 
Love  shines  upon  me  to  Love's  rituals  won! — 
And  welcome,  ah  thrice  welcome,  thou  bright 

Morn 

Whose  light  shall  lead  me,  ere  thy  sands  are  run, 
Down   all   the   pleasant   fields   to   that    sweet 

bourn 

Where  sate  the  maiden,  bright  above  compare, 
With  Hero's  length  of  tress  and  Hero's  bosom 
bare!" 

XXIV. 

Thus  passioned  from  his  starry  battlement 
The  enamoured  Prince,  and  eyes  of  lovers  still 

Best  herald  the  dawn  ....     With  morn  sweet 

Florence  bent 
Her  happy  footsteps  through  that  gate  at  will 


148  lone, 

Which  downward  led  to  gardens  sweet  with  scent 

And  splendid  with  bright  buds  as  Fancy's  hill, 

Where  Florence  spent,  shut  from  all  envious  view, 

A  youth  untroubled,  sweet,  and  born  each  morn 

anew. 


XXY. 

A  little  wliile  she  lingered  by  the  fount 
That  tempted  thrice  the  new-fledged  laik  to 

soar, 
As  nigher  and  still  higher  it  did  mount, 

And  wetted  flowers  bowed  them  to  acjore: 
A  little  while  she  lingered  by  the  fount 
That  tempted  thrice  the  new-fledged  lark  to 

soar, 

Then  'gan  she  to  tremble  like  a  rose  awaked 
By  Zephyr,  and  her  heart  with  sudden  passion 
ached. 


XXVI. 

Some  say  the  lily  trembles  'gainst  that  hour 
A  lover's  hand  shall  ravish  it  away: 

Some  say  the  roses  feel  the  coming  shower 
Though  heaven  still  is  blue  and  no  clouds  stray 


And  Other  Poems.  149 

Perhaps  'twas  so  with  .Florence  as  with  the  flower 

Of  purity,  or  rose?  on  leafy  spray, — 
Perhaps  like  these  she  felt  a  sweet  approach 
And  shook  like  asphodels  when  lover's  hands  en- 
croach. 


XXVII. 

Perhaps  a  Presence  went  before  the  youth 
That  Love  was  leading  to  the  garden  gate 

And  shook  the  Rose  of  Tiber.     Ay,  in  sooth, 
'Tis  sweet  to  fable  that  love  did  agitate 

Her  maiden  bosom,  and  not  passing  ruth: 
Nor  shall  I  question  this,  nor  make  debate1,-— 

No  poet  questions  beauty  but  to  find 

A  greater  beauty,  and  no  greater  is  behind. 

XXVIII. 

Then,  as  a  gust  of  summer  faints  and  dies 
And  troubled  waters  take  their  native  calm, 

The  passion  passed  from  Florence,  and  her  eyes — 
As  dark  as  twilight  'neath  a  budded  palm — 

Resumed  their  converse  with  the  morning  skies, 
That  newly  to  her  heart  brought  peace  and  balm, 

Her  lips  grew  tender,  and  she  'gan  to  sing 

A  ditty  light  as  air,  wed  to  one  silver  string. 


150  lone, 

XXIX. 

Stol'n  to  the  sculptured  gate— the  garden's  seal — 
'Neath  shade  of  purple  flowers,  such  as  twine 

The  pulses  of  the  wandering  winds  and  feel 
The  heart  of  Summer  through  them  heat  divine, 

The  Prince,  unseen,  a  little  while  did  kneel 
Like  palmer  at  the  foot  of  holy  shrine, 

Then,  rising  up,  looked  full  on  Florence  there 

And  craved  a  cup  of  water  as  her  utmost  care. 

XXX. 

By  noble  and  ingenuous  youth  the  dew 

Of  courtesy  is  never  strained,  and  with  a  cup 

Of  water  asked  youth  gives  its  friendship  too, 
So  deemed  the  ardent  Nobleman,  and  up 

The  garden  path  came  Florence  and  withdrew 
The  single  severing  holt  that  he  might  sup 

The  waters  of  the  fountain,  as  he  sued: — 

A  youth  right  noble,  sooth,  and  with  all  grace 
imbued ! 

XXXI. 

He  entered  in!     No  bright  imperial  crown 

Shot  golden  lustre  through  the  crown  of  youth 

Encircling  his  fair  forehead.     One  whom  Renown 
Had  touched  but  lightly  yet  had  touched  for 
truth, 


And  Other  Poems.  151 

For  truth  and  chivalry,  he  seemed;  and  down 
The  garden  path,  right  courteously  in  sooth, 
Fair  Florence  led  him  onward,  undismayed, 
To  where  the  fountain  rose  and  cast  a  pleasant 
shade. 


XXXII. 

Deep  drank  the  Prince.     "Does    Tiber   taste    so 
sweet  ? 

Is  Tiber,  then,  so  delicate  at's  head? 
Ah,  blessed  Tiber  !"     "  7Tis  thy  journey's  heat 
Hath  made  it  delicate,"  fair  Florence  said. 
"A  charmed  fountain  and  a  charmed  retreat!" 

The  Prince  responded  then :     "And  may  I  tread 
This  pleasant  path,  and  rest  a  wanderer's  eye 
Upon  the  rose  that  springs  a  home  and  haven  by  ?" 


xxxm. 

Ah,  wherefore  did  fair  Florence  turn  away? 

Ah,  wherefore  did  she  tremble  like  a  star? 
Was  it  with  anger  that  he  chose  to  stay 

And  with  rude  presence  on  her  spirit  jar? 
Ah,  no,  not  anger,  for  from  bloomy  spray 

She  plucked  the  fragrant  rose  he  praised  afar, 


152  Ions, 

And  begged  him  keep  it  till  the  Tiber  drew 
Him  unto  greener  fields  where  sweeter  flowers 
blew. 

XXXIV. 

"Sweet  to  the  wanderer  is  the  rose,"  he  said, 
"That  springs  with  light  upon  it  from  the  home ; 

Upon  its  leaves  a  brighter  dew  is  shed 

Than  falleth  ever  on  fields  wherethrough  we 
roam! 

Yet  not  with  wandering  spirit  am  I  led 

To  journey  o'er  the  fields  and  spumy  foam, 

I  seek  a  blessed  shrine  but  newly  found 

Where  once  a  Seraph  stood,  and  now  'tis  holy 
ground." 

XXXV. 

"Farewell!"  sweet  Florence    said,    and    then    it 

seemed 
She  had  waked  a  chord  she  did  not  mean  to 

wake, 
rAn  impassioned  chord    of    which    she    had    not 

dreamed 

That  shook  her  heart  and  made  her  being  ache. 
"Adieu !"  the  Prince  replied :     "I  had  not  deemed 
The  morn  so  high  in  heaven ;  yet  ere  I  take 


And  Other  Poems.  153 

My  leave  of  Tiber  thrice  this  way  I  ride — 
Though  not  to  rest  again  by  this  cool  fountain's 
side/' 


XXXVI. 

A  question  'twas  within  whose  answer  sweet 
A  wiser  maid  had  crowded  all  her  heart, 

But  Florence  guessed  not  that  he  did  entreat 
A  triple  audience  ere  they  should  part; 

Yet  ignorance  in  her  worked  no  defeat 

Nor  made  the  Prince  with  trepidation  start, 

For  courteously  she  welcomed  him  to  rest 

Though  from  the  east  he  came  or  from  the  dewy 
west. 


XXXVII. 

Ah,  brief  their  meeting,  swift  their  parting  fond, 

As  transitory  as  a  morning  dream, 
Yet  Love  found  time  to  knit  the  subtle  bond 

That  bound  their  spirits  to  a  single  scheme! 
Home  from  the  fountain  starred  like  diamond 

Keturned  the  gentle  Prince  in  sweet  extreme, 
Communing  with  his  spirit  as  he  went, 
For  love,  though  no  ear  listens,  waketh  eloquent. 


154  lone, 


XXXVIII. 

While  for  sweet  Florence  by  the  gate  apart — 
A  dawning  in  her  tender  eye  and  glad — 

She  first  knew  love,  and  to  her  happy  heart 
The  morning  rose  another  meaning  had ! 

Immortal  love  she  knew  and  love's  best  art, 
Which  virtue  is  in  sweet  simplicity  clad : 

Then  'gan  she  to  sing  and  through  her  singing 
ached 

A  chord  untouched  before,  a  string  but  newly 
waked. 


PAKT  II. 
I. 

Now  on  their  love,  alike  as  on  the  rose, 
Another  morn  hath  risen.     At  the  gate 

The  Prince  again  did  crave  the  sweet  repose 
And  waters  o'  the  garden,  cool  and  delicate ; 

Again  fair  Florence  by  the  fount  uprose 
And  loost  the  bolt  and  welcomed  him  elate : 

Again  they  bade  adieu  and  turned  away 

He  to  his  harp  addrest,  she  to  the  rose  of  May. 


And  Other  Poems.  155 

II. 

Then  twice  the  golden  sun  rose  on  their  love 
To  set  upon  their  parting  dim  and  sweet, 
Ah,  twice  the  fading  sun  brought  home  the  dove, 
And  either  stayed  though  neither  did  entreat; 
Then  twice  the  tender  gloaming  from  above 
Came  down  and  trembled  'round  their  happy 

feet— 

A  book  by  sunlight  and  a  harp  by  dusk 
Held  them  together  till  the  glow-worm  breathed 
the  musk. 

III. 

Then  came  the  seventh  day,  the  perfect  day, 
Such  as  in  June  the  poets  search  and  sing; 

It  came  unto  the  rose  on  bloomy  spray, 
Then  to  the  risen  lark  with  dewy  wing ; 

Then  to  fair  Florence  came  with  golden  ray 
And  lingered  in  her  hair.     It  was  in  Spring, 

One  echo  slept  upon  an  hundred  hills — 

The  song  of  Philomel  among  the  morning  rills. 

IV. 

It  came,  and  found  the  lovers  with  a  book, 
A  book  of  verse  beneath  the  lilac  tree, 

Rare  verse  of  May,  of  dale  and  sunny  nook, 
Of  hedges  sweet  with  lind,  where  sucked  the 
bee; 


156  lone, 

Of  thyme -linked  glimpses  of  the  running 

Of  purple  bloom  and  dews  of  Arcady : 
And  love  was  there,  and  grew  from  bud  to  leaf, 
From  bud  to  leaf  it  grew  into  the  perfect  sheaf. 

V. 

"0,  Florence,  Florence,  by  his  cunning  art 

This  bard  hath  stolen — so  rarely  doth  he  sing — 

Light  from  thine  eyes  and  sweetness  from  thy 

heart 
And  builded  up  a  dream  of  love  and  Spring ! 

Ah,  Florence,  Florence,  these  shall  never  part, 
Linked  by  the  golden  rhyme  the  bard  dotH 
bring, 

And  thou  and  I  forevermore  shall  be 

Like  these  two  lovers  joined  for  aye  in  poetry !" 

VI. 

"This  be  my  story  then,"  the  answer  came: 
"Into  thy  keeping  here  I  give  my  heart: 

Thou  taught  me  love  ere  others  taught  its  name — • 
Farewell,  sweet  garden,  thou  and  I  must  part!" 

"0  may  confusion  seize  me  and  hot  shame 
If  ever,  Love,  my  love  should  wing  this  dart ! 

Look  up,  bright  Florence,  here  thou  still  may'st 
dwell, 

These  hanging  walls  thou  lovest  shall  echo  not 
'farewell !' 


And  Other  Poems.  157 


VII. 

"My  state  is  noble,  noble  is  my  race, 

And  here  beside  these  pleasant  walls,  sweet  one, 

I'll  build  thee  a  palace  home."     But  in  the  face 
Of  Florence  was  a  light  not  in  the  sun, 

But  something  that  is  born  of  human  grace, 
Of  finer  substance  than  the  day  is  spun : 

"Ah,  no,"  she  softly  said,  "that  must  not  be; 

This  garden  were  a  love  to  steal  my  love  from 
thee." 

VIII. 

"Nay,  gentle  heart,  the  bird  of  sweetest  lay, 

The  leafiest  tree,  tho  brightest  flower  that  blows 
Within  these  gardens,  decked  by  darling  May, 

Shall  be  transplanted  where  thy  sweet  self  goes, 
And  thou  shalt  parted  be  ah  scarce  a  day; 
Then  come,  dear  heart,  and  bid  the  fragrant 

rose 

Beside  thy  father's  door  a  long  farewell, 
I  have  a  distant  home  where   thou    and    I    shall 
dwell." 

IX. 

"0  may  I  dream  the  early  dream  to-night 
Which  knows  no  sad  (i arewell !'  Abide  till  morn, 

Then,  questionless,  I'll  act  this  heavy  rite 
And  bid  farewell  to  flower  and  to  thorn. 


158  lone, 

But,  lo !  when  morning  comes  with  golden  light 
And  far  away  I  hear  the  huntsman's  horn, 
Ah,  tell  me,  Love,  where  wilt  thou  lead  my  feet — 
Hast  thou  a  home  for  me,  a  pleasant  garden  seat?" 


X. 


"0,  Love,  I  ne'er  had  stol'n  away  thy  heart 

Without  some  haven  for  thy  weary  feet ! 
Believe  my  passion  is  the  better  part 

Integrity  and  honor;  and  I  entreat 
Thee  not  to  question  me  in  any  sort — 

To  make  the  rare  more  rare,  the  sweet  more 

sweet, 

I've4  veiled  from  thee — thy  pardon  set  me  right — 
From  whence  I  come  at  morn  and  whither  go  at 
night. 

XI. 

"Yet  know,  and  let  it  be  thy  surety, 
Within  my  father's  halls  there  is  no  stone 

But  once  hath  echoed  without  disloyalty 

Thy  father's  name;  and  now  it  shall  be  shown 

How  dear  he  was,  whose  name  shall  ever  be 
A  silver  echo  given  by  the  throne 

Back  to  the  lips  of  Honor  without  blame, 

Of  Rome,  for  Rome,  and  unto  Rome,  an  immortal 
name! 


And  Other  Poems.  159 

XII. 

"0,  then,  leave  not  my  grace  at  question,  Dear, 
But  think  that  where  thy  father's  name  hath 
been 

And  lingers  as  great  music  on  the  ear 
His  daughter  happily  may  enter  in, 

Without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  or  fear, 
And  dwell  in  honor  as  befits  his  kin. 

0  trust  me,  I've  a  home  within  the  North, 

The  rose  is  at  its  gate  and  myrrh  upon  its  hearth." 

XIII. 

"There  is  a  tomb  beside  the  sounding  sea 

They  taught  me  to  call  'f ather/  "  Florence  said : 

"Alas,  he  never  lived  to  christen  me! 
The  painting  of  a  mother  by  my  bed. 

They  taught  me  to  call  'mother/  and  to  be 
A  daughter  to, — the  gentlest  of  the  dead. 

Yet  I  am  happy,  Love,  for  thou  art  near, 

And  when  thou  goest  hence  thou  leadest  me  from 
here." 

XIV. 

And  then  the  twilight  came  with  gentle  hand 
And  parted  these  two  lovers  side  by  side: 

Home  went  the   Prince  with  tender  heart   and 

bland, 
And  Florence  to  her  rest  with  maiden  pride. 


160  lone, 

After,  the  moon  came  down  upon  that  land 

Of  gardens,  wherethrough  crystal  waters  glide, 
And  Philomel  saw  that  the  night  was  fine 
And  sung  across  the  dews  a  hymn  of  love  divine. 


XV. 

Then  paled  the  stars  hefore  the  bridal  morn 
That  rose  from  seas  ^Egean  without  stain, 

And  from  lush  covert  of  untrodden  thorn 
The  lark  uprose,  and  sweeter  was  his  strain 

Than  that  of  fabled  birds  such  as  adorn 
Apollo's  tree,  and  poets  love  to  feign. 

But,  ah,  it  was  not  day,  not  perfect  day, 

Until  the  Bride  arose  and  stood  mid  dewy  spray! 

XVI. 

Mid  dewy  spray  she  stood  at  sweet  repose, 
Adorned  by  nature  with  so  much  of  fair 

That  poetry  shall  only  add  a  rose 

And  with  a  sapphire  pin  it  in  her  hair. 

Mid  spray  of  hyacinth  at  sweet  repose 

Fair  Florence  stood,  and  charmed  the  list'ning 
air 

With  those  sweet  bursts  that  rather  seem  to  be 

The  language  of  a  heart  than  scheme  of  harmony. 


And  Other  Poems.  161 

XVII. 

But  soon  her  singing  ceased,  for  at  the  gate 
A  stranger  stood,  and  in  the  Prince's  name 

Craved  gently  that  he  need  no  longer  wait 
But  enter  in  and  speak  wherefore  he  came. 

He  bore  the  countenance  of  royal  state, 

A  throne's  reflected  light  and  golden  flame; 

And  courteously  he  crost  the  garden's  marge 

And  knelt  at  Florence's  feet  and  spoke  his  honored 
charge. 

XVIII. 

"Fair  lady,  from  thy  sovereign  Prince  I  come — 
The  Throne  in  one  mind  with  its  royal  Heir — 

To  publish  in  this  garden  that  thy  sum 

Of  grace  and  beauty,  and  a  name  most  rare, 

Have  moved  the  bravest  Prince  in  Christendom 
To  choose  thee  Consort  to  his  state  and  share 

His  present  honors  and  prophetic  reign, 

The  grandeur  of  his  throne  and  grace  that  doth 
sustain. 

XIX. 

"Thou  art  a  Princess,  chosen  from  beyond 
The  royal  line  but  not  the  royal  grace: 

And  art  thrice  blest  in  cherishing  this  bond — 
Blessing  ,thyself,  the  Prince,  and  populace ! 


162  lone, 

But,  lo !  with  pageantries  that  correspond 

With  his  great  intent,  to  this  pleasant  place 
The  Prince  with  all  his  train  is  now  addrest: 
Throw  wide  thy  heart   and   entertain  the  royal 
guest !" 

XX. 

Was  it  with  woman's  longings  for  royalty 

That  Florence^  brow  grew  pale   and  cold  as 

death? 
Was  it  the  thin  air  of  high  sovereignty 

Oppressed  her  heart  and  stole  away  her  breath? 

Ah,  no,  not  these — though  these  it  well  might  be — 

Paled  her  fair  brow  and  stole  away  her  breath : 

'Twas  that   she  never   dreamed   the   Prince  her 

Love, 

And  now  had  come  divorce  she   could  not  rise 
above. 

XXL 

Or  so  it  seemed;  for  should  the  Prince  decree 
Her  as  the  Consort  of  his  royal  state 

Her  marriage  with  another  could  not  be, 

And  knowing  this  she  thought  she  knew  her 
fate. 

"Alas!"  she  said,  "Fm  chosen  for  misery; 
Waiting  for  gentle  love  I  do  but  wait 

For  rude  divorce :  and  in  Love's  name  they  post 

Who  steal  away  my  Love  and  widow  me  almost ! 


And  Other  Poems.  163 

XXII. 

"0,  thou  sweet  garden,  unto  thee  I  turn, 
Then  comfort  me  in  sorrow,  or  I  faint. 

Ah,  thou  wast  ever  gentle,  nor  wilt  spurn 
Me  in  the  heaviness  of  rude  complaint: 

My  hopes  are  ashes,  never  more  to  burn 
With  colors  warmer  than  the  poets  paint ! 

0,  teach  me,  is  it  thus  in  human  fate 

That  lovers'  hearts  must  break  in  Spring  when 
sweet  birds  mate? 

XXIII. 

"A  Princess  and  prophetic  Queen  to  be! 

0  then  shall  grief  and  wrong  be  lifted  high, 
And,  hooped  by  golden  bands  of  royalty, 

This  heart  must  break — while  Grandeur  stand- 

eth  by ! 
0,  Love,  hear  my  complaint  and  haste  to  me, 

And  thou  and  I  from  Italy  shall  fly 
In  the  sweet-bitter  steps  of  frightened  Love 
To  where  our  hearts  are  whole  though  skies  be 
rent  above!" 

XXIV. 

Then  Florence  wept !     But  in  this  lyric  song 
There  are  no  tears  but  that  are  wiped  away : 

All  swift  affliction  and  all  seeming  wrong 
Which  she  shall  ever  know  is  but  a  way 


164  lone, 

To  make  the  sweet  more  sweet,  as  shadows  throng 

The  forehead  of  the  morning  and  the  day 
Seems  brighter  and  more  welcome  after  shade, 
More  golden  on  the  hill,  more  tender  in  the  glade. 

XXV. 

Then  on  her  ear  sweet  music  rose  and  fell 
And  down  she  knelt  as  for  a  sacrifice ; 

But  nature  in  the  gentlest  dare  rebel 

'Gainst  power  that  would  blind  Love's  tender 
eyes 

And  him  into  the  thongs  of  bondage  sell, 

Barred  from  the  golden  warmth  of  freedom's 
skies : 

So  Florence  rose,  unconquered  it  would  seem, 

Save  but  her  vesper  eyes  down  bent  as  in  a  dream. 

XXVI. 

Meanwhile  the  eager  Prince  had  stayed  his  train 
Hard  by  the  garden  walls,   and   through  the 
gate 

Alone  he  came.     Fair  Florence  with  sharp  pain 
Felt  that  approach  which  needs  must  agitate 

Her  tender  bosom,,  and  a  moment  drain 
Heaven  of  balm  and  youth  of  joy  innate. — 

That  golden  light  that  shines  from  Providence 

Has  passed  into  eclipse  and  all  is  now  suspense ! 


And  Other  Poems.  165 

XXVII. 

"Fair  lady,"  thus  the  Prince,  "a  courtier 

Hath  been  before  and  herald'  my  approach: 

His  chosen  words  no  doubt  did  minister 

To  honor  more  than  love,  yet  my  reproach 

Shall  nothing  injure,  for  what  reverend  sir, 
In  Love's  uneasy  livery  set  abroach, 

Can  put  to  fitting  words  a  young  man's  heart, 

Paint  what  he  feels  not,  what  he  doth  not  dream, 
impart  ? 

XXVIII. 

"I  am  thy  Prince,  and  thou  shalt  be  my  bride : 
'Tis  so  decreed  and  that  decree  shall  stand. 

Thy  spirit  hath  been  ever  by  my  side 

And  now,  indeed,  I  take  thy  corporal  hand. 

This  kiss  be  at  my  judgment  to  betide 
Me  weal  or  woe  as  to  its  faith  I  stand- — 

Thy  royal  husband  and  thy  loyal  love, 

As  constant  to  thine  eyes  as  fate  to  stars  above !" 

XXIX. 

Then  down  fair  Florence  knelt,  and  at  his  feet 
Poured  out  in  supplication  her  sad  heart. 

The  Prince,  confounded,  heard  his  Love  entreat, 
And  saw  the  actor,  yet  guessed  not  the  part, 


i66  lone, 

But  soon  her  pleading  ceased,  so  bitter-sweet, 
So  far  from  forethought  yet  so  near  to  art, 
And  looking  down  upon  her  sunny  hair 
The  Prince  in  sorrow  found  the  source  of  her  de- 
spair. 

XXX. 

"0  good,  my  Lord,  thou  hast  not  seen  behind 
This  high  decree,  or  else  thy  lips  had  stayed 

To  bless  it  with  approval.     Thou  dost  bind 
An  innocent  love  in  constancy  arrayed 

And  set  a  sorrow  free !     0,  most  unkind 
That,  guiltless,  I  am  guiltlessly  betrayed. 

0  sad,  my  Lord,  the  sun  hath  stooped  to  bless, 
But,  blessing,  hath  consumed  me  in  my  lowliness ! 

XXXI. 

"My  love  is  to  my  fortune  as  a  vine 

That  climbs  no  higher  than  that  cottage  eave 

Whereneath  'tis  planted,  for  this  love  of  mine 
Hath  climbed  no  higher  than  my  state  gives 
leave. 

1  looked  unto  that  kingly  throne  of  thine 
But  to  obey,  my  Lord,  not  to  receive ; 

Elsewhere  I  looked  for  love,  elsewhere  'twas  found, 
Nor  sprung  so  high  as  thine  yet  sprung  from  holy 
ground. 


And  Other  Poems.  167 

XXXII. 

"I  love  a  youth,  a  noble  youth,  my  Lord, 

Who,  with  the  morning,  greets  me  at  the  gate, 

And  here  upon  this  green   and  pleasant   sward 
We  linger  till  the  twilight  doth  abate 

Light  on  the  pages  of  that  gentle  bard 
Who  found  love  sweet  and  found  it  adequate ; 

And  good,  my  Lord,  thou  canst  not  surely  mean 

To  blast  that  love  which  flowered  ere  thy  love  was 
green !" 

XXXIII. 

"0,  Florence,  Florence,  hast  thou  been  deceived 
So  far  beyond  the  period  of  intent? 

Hath  expectation  failed,  and  art  thou  grieved 
By  circumstances  in  all  kindness  meant? 

Dear  heart,  hast  thou  some  threatening  gloom  per- 
ceived 
In  heaven,  where  Love's  golden  bow  was  bent? 

0  then  kneel  not  amid  the  weeping  dew, — 

1  am  thy  royal  Prince  and,  sweet,  thy  lover  too !" 

XXXIV. 

Drawn  up  by  these  strange  accents  to  her  feet, 
She  opened  wide  her  veiled,  affrayed  eye: 

The  wonder  of  it  all  was  near  complete, 
And  ignorance  was  taking  wings  to  fly 


lone, 

Then  sudden  to  her  neck  and  forehead  sweet 

The  warm  blood  mantled  like  a  painful  dye, 
And  darkling  for  the  well  of  speech  she  groped, 
Saying,   "Art  thou  a  prince  indeed — past  what 
I  hoped! 

XXXV. 

"0,  pardon  me,  my  Lord,  I  knew  it  not, 
And  in  my  ignorance  I  was  not  bold ; 

But  now  I  see  my  love  is  overshot 

Beyond  my  fortune — and — the  tale  is  told  !" 

"Sweet  Love/'  the  Prince  replied,  "there  is  no 

blot 
But  love  may  better  wear  than  lust  for  gold; — 

Thy  veins  are  noble  and  thy  heart  is  great, 

And  thou  shalt  be  the  Consort  of  my  royal  state. 

XXXVI. 

"Nay,  lead  thy  doubts  aside  to  perish,  sweet, 
And  follow  faith  unto  its  perfect  goal: 

I  saw  this  hour  coming,  nor  defeat 

Was  in  its  train,  but  victory  and  whole. 

0  entertain  me,  now  our  love's  complete, 
Both  with  a  lifted  eye  and  perfect  soul: 

Or  say,  bright  Florence,  wilt  thou  bid  farewell 

To  these  sweet  flowers  that  blow  where  thou  no 
more  shalt  dwell?" 


And  Other  Poems.  169 


XXXVII. 

"It  is  my  wish/'  she  said,  "my  dearest  bent; 

And  as  a  Princess  I  command  at  will !" 
Then  through  the  garden  hand  in  hand  they  went, 

While  music  rose  and  fell  to  soothe  or  thrill. — 
The  flowers  throng  their  steps  with  fragrant  scent, 

And  as  these  lovers  by  the  gate  stand  still 
And  bid  the  rose1  farewell  on  leafy  spray, 
Bid  them  adieu  and  let  the  music  die  away. 


Ion«, 


KEATS. 


He  was  the  darling  of  blue  Olympus, 

The  loveliest  of  them  all; 
And  the  way  of  his  youth  was  Beauty's  way 

And  never  shall  weary  or  pall. 

He  hung  a  silver  moon  in  the  heavens, 
And  that  moon  shall  never  fade; 

But  lovers  shall  look  on  its  face  forever, 
As  bright  as  when  Madeleine  prayed 

He  fled  with  Philomel  into  the  wood 
Where  numberless  shadows  throng, 

And  into  that  wood  half  the  world  hath  stolen 
And  listened  to  Philomel's  song. 

He  bathed  the  ieasoni  in  myitic  light — 
I  can  fee  that  light  on  th*  hill! 

An  hundred  years  his  eyes  are  closed 
But  the  world  looks  through  them  still. 


And  Other  Poems.  171 

Death  shall  lie  down  with  the  fairest  of  earth 

But  not  with  the  fairest  of  his, 
For  the  lovely  daughters  of  his  mind 

Each  one  immortal  is. 

Greece  is  dearer  for  his  dear  "Urn/' 

And  Italy  bluer  for  him; 
And  Arcady  is  nearer  to  us 

Because  of  his  lovely  hymn. 

The  only  nightingale  thousands  have  heard 

He  loosed  from  his  tranced  heart, 
In  sweet  embalmed  darkness  to  sing — 

To  sing,  and  never  depart. 

His  music  hath  passed  into  Beauty's  face, 

Her  smile  is  one  with  his  hymn : 
And  if  there's  a  thought  in  the  heart  of  the  rose 

'Tis  a  thought  of  him. 


1 72  lone, 


ISABEL 


'Tis  midnight,  and  a  spirit  in  my  feet, 

Past  many  an  upland  lawn  by  Eros  prest, 
Eastward  hath  led  me  to  where  the  violets  sweet 

Yet  bear  the  impress  of  her  twilight  rest. 
Here,  where  through  flowers  dim  and  fragrant- 
eyed 
The  wandering  airs  of  heaven  breathe  and  die, 

On  pleasant  sward,  at  shut  of  golden  eve, 
She  knelt  within  my  arms,  a  promised  bride ; 
The  twilight  lingering  in  her  azure  eye, 

The  night  upon  the  curls  that  'round  her 
forehead  cleave. 


II. 


The  wild  bee  sleeps  in  star  light  with  the  rose, 
The  dews  are  blown  abroad,  the  silver  moon, 

Making  night  beautiful,  conies  down  and  glows 
Upon  the  waters  from  her  queenly  noon. 


And  Other  Poems.  173 

The  mocking-bird  hath  caught  a  lyric  note 
That  fell  from  heaven  with  the  twilight  dim, 
And  all  the  night  hath  stayed  awake  with 

song- 
Like  some  rapt  poet  wandering  remote, 
And  shaping  with  his  lips  a  golden  hymn 
From  voices  that  around  his  haunted  spirit 
throng. 

III. 

Where  broods  bright  Hesper  o'er  yon  silver  steep 

And  Summer  lays  her  flowered  mantle  by, 
My  Lady  sleeps  a  golden-visioned  sleep, 

Soft-fanned  by  airs  that  climb  the  azure  sky. 
Exhaling  fragrance  from  each  pearled  brim 

Beneath  her  casement  sweet  buds  faintly  gleam, 

Such  as  in  Arcady  first  sprung  and  blew; 
The  rose  looks  upward  to  her  lattice  dim 

Upon   the   sloping   lawn  the   tranced   night 

through, 

And  lends  a  perfume  to  the  rose  within  her 
dream. 

IV. 

Her  youth  lies  open  to  the  golden  light 

And  moves  through  beauty  like  a  mountain 
brook ; 

Her  heart  is  tender  as  a  summer  night, 

And  twilight  meets  the  morning  in  her  look. 


174  lone, 

The  mocking-bird  is  singing  up  the  dawn, 
And  sweeter  birds  shall  sing  the  morning  in, 
But  not  the  risen  lark  sings  sweet  as  she 
Climbing  the  steep  blue  o'er  a  poet's  lawn, 
Nor  Philomel,  to  songs  unsung  akin, 
Singing  from  dewy  thyme  in  olden  poesy. 


V. 


As  shakes  a  new-blown  rose  in  Summer's  front 
Before  the  winds  that  breathe  from  meadows 

wide, 
Here  where  the  air  is  cool  with  swaying  fount 

My  Isabel  became  my  promised  bride. 
With  something  of  that  early  proud  repose 
And  something  of  that  late  and  sweet  unrest, 

She  knelt  within  my  arms  with  meek  embrace ; 
Her  blush  down-mantling  to  the  fragrant  rose 
{That  shook  its  conscious  dews  upon  her  breast, 
Her  eyes,  half  veiled  with  love,  upturned  unto 
my  face. 

VI. 

0  for  the  wand  of  Morpheus  to  fill 
Her  dreams  with  visions  that  arise  in  me, — - 

To  visit  her  in  balmy  sleep  at  will 
And  shake  her  heart  with  this  deep  ecfctaty ! 


And  Other  Poems.  175 

0  for  an  hour  to  be  old  Somnus'  heir 
And  guide  athwart  yon  azure  fields  of  light 

The  winged  and  viewless  chariot  of  dreams  I 
So  should  I  hang  the  dim  and  spacious  air 
Wherein  she  moves  in  dreams  of  summer  night 
Even  with  yon  bright  star  that  on  my  fore- 
head streams. 

VII. 

Yea,  seat  her  on  this  pleasant  hill  in  dreams 

And  cool  her  hands  in  flowers  dim  and  sweet, 
Within  her  ears  the  sound  of  falling  streams, 

The  wandering  airs  of  heaven  'round  her  feet. 
Nor  should  my  voice  be  hushed  until  the  dawn, 
But  sometimes,  falling  through  the  verdurous 

gloom, 

Come  o'er  her  listening  ear  as  sweet  and  far 
As  spirit  calling  unto  spirit;  anon 

Risa  at  her  feet  from  dewy  hawthorn  bloom : — 
Yet  I  should  not  be  found  beneath  the  even- 
ing star. 

VIII. 

Aye  troubled  in  her  dreams  she  would  awake, 
Awake,  arise,  and  come  into  the  night ; 

Come  out  into  the  night  for  love's  sweet  sake 
And  seek  me  by  yon  heaven's  tender  light. 


1 76  lone, 

Like  some  bright  flower  borne  unto  my  feet 
Upon  the  waters  of  a  running  stream, 

Troubled,  but  not  o'ercome,  past  brook  and 

fall, 

Past  pools  where  Phoebe  dreams,  through  mead- 
ows sweet, 

O'er  dewy  lawn,  in  shade  and  blended  beam, 
My  Bride  would  come  to  me,  and  love  be  all 
in  all! 

IX. 

Ay  me !  some  sweetness  is  too  sweet  for  dreams, 

Some  buds  too  bright  to  ope  on  fancy's  air, 
Some  stars  too  golden  for  the  night  which  streams 

Around  the  dreamer — bright  above  compare ! 
Ye  stars  of  summer  night,  this  may  not  be ! 
Enough  to  touch  her  hand  at  break  of  dawn, 

Enough  our  lips  shall  meet  at  dewy  dusk; — 
Too  sweet,  too  rare,  too  wrought  with  ecstasy, 
To  calm  my  Love  at  midnight,  all  forlorn, 
And  take  her  to  my  heart,  soft-fanned  by  the 
blown  musk. 

X. 

The  lake  has  lit  the  mocking-bird  to  rest, 
Midst  purple  spray  and  ever-flowering  green, 

The  bright,  soft-pacing  moon  hath  newly  drest 
The  falls  bevond  the  wood  in  silver  sheen ! 


And  Other   Poems.  177 

One  star  hath  lit  me  to  this  pleasant  seat, 
Streaming  upon  my  path  with  rosy  light, — 

One  star  shall  light  me  down  unto  my  rest ; 
One  light  is  on  my  dreams,  one  'round  her  feet, — 
Yon  star  of  Love  hung  pendulous  in  night, 
Shaking  its  golden  splendors  from  the  stead- 
fast West! 


PUT  MONEY  IN  YOUR  PURSE. 

MONEY,  however  got,  is  money  still, 

The  greatest  thing  that  serves  the  human  will; 

Earned,  found  or  stolen,  borrowed,  begged  as  well, 

'T  will  move  all  spirits  and  all  men  compel. 

Get  money,  then,  and  get  it  as  you  may, 

For  everything  is  his  who  has  the  means  to  pay. 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
In  health  ?t  will  feed  you  and  in  sickness  nurse: 
Affection  wearies;  love  grows  weak  and  cold, 
Not  so  that  blessed  angel — yellow  gold  ! 
Fame!  Glory!  all  the  bright,  immortal  host 
Cannot  attempt  what  gold  does  lightly  boast; 
Lo !     Genius  cannot  ease  one  labored  breath 
But  money  oft  can  stay  the  hand  of  death: 
The   tongue  of   Burke   shall   parch   with   fever's 

heat 
While  Midas  cools  his  throat  with  vintage  rare 

•and  sweet! 


178  lone, 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
'T  will  ease,  if  not  subdue,  the  primal  curse; 
For  death  itself  is  easier  for  gold 
Which  keeps  out  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold. 
Get  money,  then,  and  get  it  as  you  may, 
For  everything  is  his  who  has  the  means  to  pay. 

The  poor  may  neither  choose  nor  have  their 

fill, 

The  rich  choose  freely,  freely  where  they  will; 
The  poor  are  food  for  famine  and  for  wars, 
For  cold  and  pestilence;  they  bear  the  scars 
Of  yesterday,  and  fear  to-morrow's  wound, 
And,  dead,  are  oft  interred  in  potter's  ground: 
The  rich  are  guarded  like  a  sacrament 
Up  from  the  cradle  till  their  breath  is  spent, 
Then,  borne  in  splendor  from  their  castle  walls, 
E'en  as  they  lived  they  sleep  in  marble  halls. 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
This  is  the  wisdom  of  all  prose  and  verse, 
The  wisest  maxim  that  was  ever  told, 
The  truth  that  grows  in  youth  while  other  truths 

grow  old. 

Whoever  has  a  dollar  has  a  part 
Of  what  is  nearest  to  his  neighbor's  heart, 
And,  having  that,  his  neighbor  is  his  friend, 
Or,  if  his  enemy,  himself  he  can  defend. 
Whoever  have  a  dollar  more  than  you 
Holds  in  their  hands  your  liberty,  to  do 


And   Other   Poems.  179 

According  with  it  freely  as  they  please — 
Or  lift  you   to  a  throne  or  bring  you  to  your 
knees. 

You  have  a  daughter:  look  unto  your  purse, 
Its  emptiness  shall  prove  that  daughter's  curse; 
She  shall  be  tempted  for  her  daily  bread 
And  set  her  honor  'gainst  starvation's  dread. 
You  have  a  son  with  genius  in  his  brain; 
The  rich  shall  prostitute  it  for  their  gain; 
His  spirit  shall  put  on  a  livery 
And  lackey  to  the  golden  powers  that  be. 

Play  fast  and  loose  with  every  law  of  love 
But  guard  your  purse  like  treasures  from  above: 
Who  worship  now  the  gods  that  Caesar  had? 
But  Caesar's  gold  will  keep  you  warmly  clad. 
Thus  pass  the  great  divinities  of  old 
And  teach  us  there  is  nothing  true  but  gold. 

Go  to,  get  gold ;  behold !  on  Sinai's  mount 
Was  never  given  truth  of  such  account! 
Suppose  you  do  not,  then  another  will, 
Treading    you    down    when    you    are    poor    and 

ill: 

What  then  shall  honor*  love  and  beauty  be, 
And  all  religion,  all  philosophy? 
What  then,  when  there  is  nothing  in  your  purse 
And  those  dependent  on  you  share  that  curse? 

Get  money,  and  more  money,  and  still  more, 
As  did  the  crafty  who  have  gone  before, 


180  lone, 

And  now  their  issue  rule  this  ancient  earth 
And  live  in  wealth,  in  leisure  and  in  mirth. 
They  neither  steal  nor  beg  from  door  to  door, 
And,  having  much,  give  something  to  the  poor; 
Their  bodies  are  not  warped  with  toil  and  sin, 
An  insult  to  the  spirit  hedged  within; 
And  the}'  alone  are  free  to  come  and  go, 
With   opportunity   to   see,   leisure  to   know. 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
Wealth  has  no  stings  but  poverty  has  worse. 
Wine !  Women  !  Song !  Would  you  partake  of  these  ? 
Who  have  the  money  choose  where'er  they  please. 
Travels  and  leisure!  Do  these  suit  your  mind? 
Then  money  is  your  friend  and  more  than  kind. 
A  palace  with  attendants  at  each  door ! 
How  often   fall   such   wonders  to  the  poor? 
A  yacht  in  summer  and  blue  skies  in  winter  time ! 
Your  gold  will  get  them  though  itself  be  got  by 
crime! 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
No  man  does  better,  thousands  daily  worse: 
Though  money  may  not  bring  you  happiness 
Its  lack  will  ever  bring  you  dire  distress. 

You  have  religion!  Will  it  keep  you  warm, 
Or  thrust  aside  necessity's  stern  arm  ? 
What  use  or  value  is  your  little  creed 
At  which  ten  thousand  mock,  for  which  scarce  one 
will  bleed? 


And   Other   Poems.  181 

Think  you  that  your  religion  is  the  truth? 
Nay,  so  the  Roman  thought  as  much,  forsooth; 
He  was  as  certain  that  his  faith  v;as  right 
As  you  are  certain  of  your  creed  to-night: 
He  worshipped  Jove,  another  god  have  you; 
To  still  a  third,  perchance,  your  son  will  sue. 
Then  be  not  eager  to  deceive  yourself 
And  for  an  uncertain  god  lose  certain  pelf. 

Perchance  you  labor  for  a  deathless  fame, 
The  glory  of  a  bright,  immortal  name! 
All  wealth  that  Cscsar  in  his  life  possest 
Bright  gold  will  purchase,  making  you  as  blest; 
And,  Cassar  dead,  what  comfort  can  he  find 
In  that  immortal  name  he  left  behind? 
The  dead  in  their  own  glory  have  no  part ; 
Fame  cannot  stir  a  clod  though  once  a  human 

heart! 

Nay,  when  indeed  you  have  paid  nature's  claim 
Though  honor  crown  your  grave  you  shall  not 

know  't  from  shame! 
Get  money;  nor  in  getting  be  too  nice, 
For  yellow  gold  is  cheap  at  any  price: 
?T  will  buy  you  friendship  and  7t  will  find  you 

love, 

And  serve  you  freer  than  the  gods  above. 
7T    were    better    that    your    children    wish    you 

killed 
That  they  possess  your  money-bags,  well-filled, 


182  lone, 

Than  that  your  children  wish  you  dead  and  gone 
Since  you  have  nothing  left  to  live  upon. 

'T  is  money  that  's  respected,  not  the  man ; 
'T  is  money  that  ?s  the  soul  of  every  plan! 
All  under  heaven,  be  it  what  it  may, 
Love,    virtue,    honor,    meets    bright    gold    half- 
way: 

Whenever  virtue  does  refuse  to  yield 
And  honor  will  not  cast  aside  his  shield, 
?T  is  not  they  are  impenetrable  stuff 
But  only  that  your  price  is  not  enough: 
Hold  forth  a  little  more,  and  each  will  come 
And  yield  his  crown  up  for  that  larger  sum ! 
Get  money,  then;  all  hell  cannot  delay 
The  march  of  money,  nor  all  heaven  stay! 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
'T   will   heighten   every   pleasure,   lighten   every 

curse. 

Wealth's  counterfeit  is  more  than  virtue's  self, 
An  angel's  presence  less  than  shadows  cast  by 

pelf. 

Who  steals  your  purse  has  stolen  all  your  wealth, 
Your  liberty,  your  comfort,  and  your  health; 
Your  honor,  too,  for  how  shall  that  remain 
When  hunger  fills  your  body  with  sharp  pain? 
Who  steals  your  money  steals  your  daughter  too, 
To  do  with  her  as  money  choose  to  do, 
Leaving  you  bound  and  helpless  to  pursue. 


And  Other  Poems.  183 

Cease  reading  this  and  go  abroad  and  see 
How  sterner  than  its  story  is  want's  reality: 
Rhyme  softens  still  the  tale  and  meter  part  re- 
fines 

But  poverty  itself  has  no  such  pleasing  lines; 
'T  is  hell,  stern  hell,  unchastened,  unrelieved; 
No  art  has  smoothed  it  and  no  poet  sieved. 
Like  beasts  pursued,  and  crowding  each  on  each, 
The  poor  are  huddled  close  in  Mammon's  reach : 
If  you  have  money  go  amidst  them  there 
And  choose  a  mistress  from  the  young  and  fair, 
Or  choose  the  hardiest  to  be  your  slave, 
Make  smooth  your  path  in  life,  in  death  make 

smooth   your   grave. 
Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse, 
Or  your  own  self  shall  bartered  be,  or  worse. 
Bright  gold  a  kingdom  is,  and  he  is  chief 
Who  has  possession,  though  an  arrant  thief: 
The  tongue  of  genius  he  can  loose  or  bind 
And    stay    the    thinker's    pen    and    starve    the 

thinker's  mind. 

Where  money  ends  there  slavery  begins, 
And  hunger,  and  with  hunger  half  our  sins: 
And  where  your  money  ends  leave  off  all  hope — 
Those  gates  are  shut  upon  you  that  gold  alone 

can  ope! 

Prate  not  of  heaven's  help  or  virtue's  arms 
The  poor  dwell  in  a  city  of  alarms, 


184  lone, 

And,  waiting  for  death  to  set  their  spirit  free, 
They  suffer  all  things,  all  injustice  see: 
Their  very  virtues  eke  their  patience  out 
And  patience  longer  bears  the  scourge  and  knout. 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
No  matter  how;  for  poverty  is  worse, 
Yes,  poverty  is  worse  a  thousand  fold 
Than  the  losing  of  your  soul  by  the  getting  of 

your  gold! 

Get  money;  money  suffers  no  delays, 
And  where  there's  gold  there  are  a  thousand  ways. 

So  many  creeds,  and  nothing  sure  but  gold; 
So  many  visions,  and,  when  all  are  told, 
We  find  ourselves  with  nature  as  before — 
Well  fed,  if  rich,  but  hungry  if  we're  poor ! 
Eeligions  rise  and  fall;  great  poets  sing; 
Philosophies,  like  hidden  waters,  spring; 
New  customs  die,  the  old  are  born  again; 
Sometimes  the  sword  shall  rule,  sometimes  the 

pen; 

Greece  yesterday,  America  to-day, 
To-morrow,  what  ?    Ah !  who  can  surely  say  ? 
But  whether  Shakespeare  sings  or  CaBsar  reigns, 
Or  Nero  binds  the  slave  or  Lincoln  rends  his 

chains, 

Gold  ever  is  the  same  life-shaping  tool 
And,  changing  oft  its  name,  has  never  changed 

its  rule. 


And  Other  Poems.  185 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
There  are  no  losses  but  'i  will  reimburse, 
Or,  if  there  are  ten  thousand  ten  times  o'er, 
Will  they  be  less  in  number  if  you're  poor? 
Nay,  poverty  will  make  the  bad  still  worse, 
To  every  evil  add  a  greater  curse; 
There  's  naught  so  sad  but  it  will  sadder  make, 
Nor  broken  but  that  once  again  't  will  break: 
It  kills  the  little  comfort  that  remains 
And  hope,  already  thin,  still  thinner  strains: 
The  body  sick,  it  sickens  then  the  heart, 
And  leaves  the  faint  and  hunted  no  resort: 
It  adds  a  toil  unto  the  widow's  grief 
And  of  the  merely  hungry  makes  the   damned 

thief: 

O'er  simple  failure  throws  a  complex  spell 
And  digs  a  deeper  pit  in  deepest  hell! 
Get  money,  then,  and,  having  much,  get  more; 
'T  is  not  enough  alone  not  to  be  poor, 
Be  also  richer  than  your  neighbor  is 
Or  what  is  yours  right  shortly  shall  be  his. 
Get  money ;  having  got  the  smallest  store 
You'll  never  need  persuasion  to  get  more: 
Faith,  truth  and  beauty  need  the  wisest  laws, 
An  angePs  tongue  to  win  us  to  their  cause, 
But  money,  which  none  question,  none  deny, 
Speaks    for    itself    and    wins    both    heart    and 

eye. 


1 86  lone, 

Your  wants  perhaps  are  simple  and  are  few — 
Plain  food  to  feed  your  body  and  renew, 
Three  suits  a  year  and  every  month  a  book, 
One  day  in  seven  by  a  running  brook, 
A  little  leisure  and  a  little  song, 
A  loving  friend  who  does  the  heart  no  wrong, 
And  naught,  save  thought,  intense,  and  naught, 

save  labor,  long: 

But  though  your  wants  are  simple  and  are  few 
With  other  men  this  finding  holds  not  true; 
Their  wants  are  legion — who  can  comprehend 
Their  multiplicity,  or  find  their  end? 
They  tax  all  nature  and  exhaust  all  art, 
And    in    their    satisfaction    you    must    play    a 

part. 

You  shall  be  forced  to  labor  'gainst  your  will 
With    ax    or   loom,    with    shovel    or   with    quill: 
'T  is  gold  will  set  the  task  and  hour,  too, 
Wherein  that  labor  must  be  done  and  through, 
And,  being  poor,  you  shall  do  certain  things 
Nor   'scape   that  task   though  heaven   lend  you 

wings. 

'T  is  gold  decides  the  labor  and  the  man, 
Appoints  the  hour  and  designs  the  plan, 
Sets  on  its  forces  as  it  best  agrees, 
Then  stands  hard  by  and  sternly  oversees. 
Get  money,  then,  or  else  the  rich  will  make 
A  vassal  of  you  for  their  passions'  sake: 


And  Other  Poems.  187 

Though  homely  fare  contents  you  and  invites, 
The  rich  have  more  capricious  appetites: 
When  your  own  toil  has  earned  a  simple  dish 
Of  lentil,  fruit,  or  wheaten  bread,  or  fish, 
And  you  are  satisfied,  then  will  the  rich 
Stir  you  abroad  to  delve  in  sand  and  ditch, 
Scour  all  the  plain  and  drag  the  viewless  air, 
To  load  their  tables  with  a  richer  fare. 
Nay,  being  poor,  you  shall  be  poorer  still 
And  serve  the  wealthy  ere  you  have  your  fill; 
Right  fortunate  if  after  they  shall  sup 
Enough  remains  to  fill  your  plate  and  cup. 
Before   the   rich   have   risen   from   their  bed 
You  shall  have  sweated  for  your  daily  bread, 
And  hours  after  they  have  gone  to  rest 
The  burning  sweat  of  toil  shall  fall  upon  your 

breast ! 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
No  matter  how;  the  lack  's  the  greater  curse: 
He  has  indeed  no  friend  who  has  no  pelf 
And,  having  naught,  he  shall  despise  himself: 
The  heart  of  him  who  can  possess  no  gold 
Is  like  some  wretched  weed  that  we  behold — 
Bitter  while  young  and  poisonous  when  old. 
Get  money,  then;  possess  it  as  you  may; 
No  matter  how  't  is  gotten  it  will  pay. 

The  rich  man's  profit  is  the  poor  man's  war, 
And,  being  poor,  you  cannot  fly  so  far 


1 88  lone, 

But  gold,  that  yellow  loadstone  none  escape, 
Will  draw  you  back  again  and  all  your  actions 

shape. 

You  shall  be  listed  in  the  ranks  of  war 
To  fix  the  bayonet,  or  guide  the  car, 
To  meet  the  advancing,  charge  the  retreating  foe, 
Here   ride  upon,  iron-shod,  there  overthrow; 
O'errun  the  greatest  length  of  bloody  ground, 
Slay  where  you  can,  and  where  you  cannot,  wound ; 
Eetreat  a  cripple,  or  perish  in  a  ditch, 
And  all  for  Home — for  Country — and  the  Rich ! 
Get  money,  then;  with  money  you   can  buy 
A  substitute  to  strike  for  you — and  die! 
Get  money,  and  more  money,  and  still  more, 
And  take  your  leisure  'long  a  pleasant  shore, 
Nor  die  a  soldier  in  a  foreign  bog, 
Nor  sweat  your  face  away  to  keep  another's  dog. 
Put  by  your  music  and  your  brush  and  pen 
And  follow  in  the  steps  of  moneyed  men: 
You  are  just  so  much  poorer  for  your  verse, 
And,  painting  beauty,  you  but  paint — a  hearse! 
Go  to,  I  say ;  put  by  these  little  tools ; 
They're  but  the  playthings  of  we  easy  fools, 
They  serve  nor  devil,   angel,  God,  nor  man, 
And  though  of  nature  not  in  nature's  plan. 
Get  out;  get  gold:  write  verses  on  a  bill, 
Those  verses  shall  be  scanned  on  Zion's  highest 
hill. 


And  Other  Poems.  189 

Go  to,  I  say ;  put  money  in  your  purse, 
And,  having  more  than  others,  fear  no  curse, 
Not  guiltless,  murdered  blood  can  cry  so  loud 
From  haunted  sepulcher  or  damned  shroud 
But  money's  music  can  subdue  that  cry 
And  buy  out  justice  though  it  fall  from  yonder 

sky! 

Get  money,  then ;  and  money  can  be  had 
Ten  thousand  ways,  and  not  one  way  is  bad: 
Earned,  found,  or  stolen  from  your  neighbor's  till, 
Possessed  by  rapine  or  by  labor's  skill, 
Robbed  from  the  needy,  from  the  wealthy  tricked, 
By  usury  got,  or  from  a  gutter  picked, 
An  almighty  dollar  is  a  dollar  still, 
The  greatest  thing  that  serves  the  human  will. 

Some  people  say,  and  moralists  acquiesce, 
That  riches  cannot  bring  us  happiness 
While  all  about  us  thousands  suffer  dire  distress; 
The  sight  of  others  mourning,  so  they  say, 
Will  take  our  appetite  for  joy  away. 
But  we  know  better,  we  who  look  around 
And  are  not  cheated  by  an  empty  sound: 
Do  we  not  daily  in  this  world  of  ours 
Behold  the  wealthy  look  from  hall  and  towers, 
Laughing  and  feasting,  on  the  poor  below, 
Nor  feel  remorse  nor  shudder  at  their  woe? 
Nay,  as  sweet  music  oft  is  sweeter  found 
By  frequent  contrast  with  discordant  sound, 


190  lone, 

So  wealth  seems  sweeter  for  the  poverty  around. 

Trust  not  the  pen,  nor  what  it  testifies, 

The  pen  is  mighty  often  but  in  lies; 

Trust  your  own  natural  passions  and  your  eyes: 

Look  not  into  a  book  upon  the  shelf 

But,  if  you'd  truly  know,  look  to  the  thing  itself. 

The  bards  know  naught  of  money  save  its  lack 

And  that  being  painful   straight  they  damn  it 

black ; 

Believe  them  never;  gold  is  more  than  kind, 
Ay,  gold  is  golden  even  to  the  blind. 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
Nor  trust  in  rhyme  nor  reason,  prose  nor  verse: 
Yon  gilded  fool  can  stutter  genius  down 
And  damn  his  inspiration  with  a  frown; 
Yon  puppet,  be  he  worked  by  golden  strings, 
Shall  sit  with  princes  and  consort  with  kings 
And  cherubim  shall  fan  him  with  their  wings. 

The  dirty  work  must  needs  be  done  by  some, 
Therefore  get  gold,  or  numbered  with  the  scum, 
You'll  pack  the  offal,  swill  and  tend  the  hogs, 
Or  fetch  and  carry  for  a  rich  man's  dogs : 
Your  very  sons  shall  loathe  you  for  your  grime 
And  wish  your  squalid  toil  were  gilded  crime. 

Each  act  of  poverty  is  questioned  still, 
But  riches,  without  question,  does  its  will; 
The  pauper's  hour  of  prayer  is  not  his  own, 
The  rich  man's  orgies  still  are  left  alone. 


And  Other  Poems.  191 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse, 
And  earth's  denunciation  and  heaven's  curse, 
The  church's  clamor  and  the  state's  reproof, 
Shall    turn    like    warded    lightning    from    your 

-    roof : 

Your  hands  can  juggle  with  that  holy  fire 
That  plays  'twixt  heaven  and  the  church's  spire, 
The  laws  shall  lackey  to  you,  and  the  pen 
Drip  incense  sweet  as  gums  Arabian. 
Therefore  get  gold,  nor  for  your  soul  delay; 
Riches  knock  once,  then  hasten  on  their  way, 
But  Christ's  salvation  may  be  had  on  any  day! 

Look  here  upon  this  honest  man,  then  here 
Upon  his  neighbor!    One  has  naught  a  year, 
The  other,  thousands — nay,  a  million  has; 
One    treads    in    Truth's,    the    other    Mammon's 

paths ; 

The  first  is  honest,  but  the  other  not : 
So  far  the  first  is  happier:  then^what? 
Why,  soon  the  honest  man  has  lost  his  health 
Or  that  position  that  was  all  his  wealth, 
And  falling  lower  and  still  lower  yet, 
Betrayed  by  evil  times  and  growing  debt, 
Himself  and  all  his  family  are  compelled 
To  get  by  squalid  toil  what  Mammon  has  with- 
held: 

His  daughters  on  an  evil  world  are  thrown 
To  slave  for  that  which  heaven  made  their  own. 


192  lone, 

To  face  temptation,  oft  to  be  subdued 

By  hunger  stronger  than  their  fortitude, 

To  marry  far  beneath  them  and  beget 

Degraded  young,  whose  young  is  lower  yet. 

His  sons,  uneducated,  leave  their  home 

To  labor  dully,  or  in  squalor  roam, 

To  bear  the  heavy  burdens  and  to  freeze, 

The  heirs  of  accident  and  foul  disease, 

Or,  lower  still,  be  driven  into  crime 

And  toil  in  villainies  like  toads  in  slime 

His  wife  a  weary  household  drudge  becomes 

Without  a  thought  beyond  the  kitchen  crumbs! 

Not  so  the  rich  man  nor  his  family; 

In  city  home,  or  cottage  by  the  sea, 

His  happy  sons  and  daughters  gather  'round 

And  make  of  mirth  one  sweet,  continual  sound; 

And,  Fortune's  favorite,  his  wife  is  there, 

Still  wiser  than  her  sons  and  than  her  daughters 

fair! 

Get  money,  then,  or  there  may  come  a  time 
When  poverty  will  drag  you  in  its  slime, 
And  all  your  honesty  shall  end  in  pain  or  crime. 

Go  to,  I  say ;  put  money  in  your  purse ; 
Toil,  beg  or  borrow,  swindle,  steal,  or  worse: 
Were  it  not  better  to  defile  your  hands 
By  robbing  others'  tills  and  others'  lands 
Than  that,  for  lack  of  nourishment,  your  wife 
Should  bear  you  children  sickly  all  their  life,, 


And  Other  Poems.  193 

Anemic,  imbecile,  and  ricket  brood 
Whose  only  sin — a  mother's  lack  of  food? 

Dishonesty  may  make  your  name  reviled 
But  poverty  can  damn  your  helpless  child! 
Get    out;    get    gold:    who    cheats    his    neighbor 

first, 
His  children  shall  not  hunger  nor  shall  thirst ! 

The  land  is  sweet  with  orchard  and  with  vine, 
The  press  is  overflowing  with  its  wine, 
The  cattle  low  across  the  grassy  lea, 
You  sink  in  fragrant  clover  to  the  knee, 
The  bees  are  droning  in  the  warm  sunshine 
And  o'er  the  walls  the  morning-glories  twine, 
But,  without  money,  you  shall  starve  and  pine: 
Peace,  beauty,  plenty,  shelter,  everywhere, 
But,  if  your  purse  is  empty,  only  toil  and  care! 

Get  money;  nature  will  not  question  you 
As  whether  it  was  gotten  false  or  true, 
By  honest  toil  or  shameful  villainy, 
And,  having  millions,  neither  will  society. 
Get   gold;    dismiss    your   conscience   from   your 

breast. 

So  many  men  and  every  one  possest 
With  something  called  a  conscience  for  its  name, 
But  never  yet  two  consciences  the  same! 

Go  to,  I  say;  put  money  in  your  purse; 
'T  will  ease  each  greater,  overcome  each  lighter 
curse : 


194 

Never  too  young  to  get  it  nor  too  old; 
Turn   everything  you   touch   to  yellow  gold; 
'T  is  better  that  you  blush  for  treasons  done 
Than  hunger,  thirst  and  slave  from  sun  to  sun. 

Stolen  glimpses   of  the  great  through  stately 

doors, 

Kich  hanging  tapestries,  long,  level  floors, 
Broad  oaken  stairways  leading  up  and  on 
To  splendid  halls  and  gilden  suites  withdrawn,— 
These  cannot  comfort  you  when  you  are  cold, 
Forsaken,  poor,  and  miserable   and  old; 
But,  having  money,  all  of  these  are  yours, 
With  pleasure  knocking  at  an  hundred  doors. 

The  poor  have  poor  and  miserable  ways 
Beset  by  strife  and  trouble  all  their  days: 
Their  lives  are  like  some  wretched  ship  a-leak 
Whose  wretched  crew  dare  scarcely  pause  or  speak, 
But  labors  in  the  hatchway  or  the  hold 
Bereft  of  hope;  its  food  and  water  doled, 
All  comforts  thrown  into  the  vasty  deep, 
All  pleasures  sacrificed,  with  scarcely  time  for 

sleep. 

They  battle  daily  'gainst  a  thousand  odds, 
All  men  against  them,  often  all  the  gods, 
Nor  for  some  splendid  prize  or  trophy  strive 
But  merely  that  they  still  may  keep  alive! 

Look  there  upon  that  poor  abandoned  wretch — 
Between  yourself  and  him,  ah,  what  a  stretch; 


And  Other  Poems.  195 

So  poor,  besotted,  miserable  and  foul 

The  very  devil  would  not  buy  his  soul ! 

He  shuffles  on  and  leaves  the  spirit  sick, 

His  supper  with  abandoned  dogs  to  pick. 

To  such  a  being  and  to  all  his  sort 

Kind  hearts  than  mile  posts  further  are  apart. 

Yet  there  no  broader  line  or  chasm  is 

Dividing  off  your  destiny  from  his 

Than  money  and  the  cursed  line  it  draws 

'Twixt  man  and  man  and  man's  unequal  laws: 

Lose    but   your    fortune,    then    your    health    can 

fail 

And  you  may  struggle  on  without  avail 
To  sink  into  the  like  and  damnable  detail. 
Get  money,  then ;  though  riches  may  have  wings 
Black  poverty  has  her  ten  thousand  stings. 

Eiches  can  purchase,  poverty  is  bought; 
Riches  are  courted,  poverty  unsought; 
Riches  have  leisure,  poverty  must  sweat; 
Riches  can  spend,  but  poverty  must  get; 
One  dwells  in  palaces  with  golden  ease, 
The  other  in  a  hovel  with  Disease! 

Riches  are  noble,  poverty  depraved; 
Riches  go  free,  but  poverty's  enslaved; 
Riches  can  laugh,  while  poverty  must  plan; 
Riches  mock  God,  but  poverty  fears  man: 
Get  riches  and  your  daring  can  go  far — 
All  things  save  poverty  forgiven  are! 


196  lone, 

Eiches  can  bathe  the  calendar  in  blood 
And  be  forgiven,  but  not  Jordan's  flood 
Can  cleanse  the  pauper  of  a  little  stain, 
For  with  his  poverty  so  shall  his  fault  remain. 

Whoso  has  money  has  the  only  good, 
A  truth  oft  spoken,  ever  understood: 
Get  money,  then ;  get  it  by  rack  and  screw 
Nor  fear  that  bugbear  end  of  Shakespeare's  Jew — 
Your  Shylocks  never  fall  in  actual  life 
But  only  in  the  play  and  its  inverted  strife. 

Get  money,  and  more  money,  and,  then,  more, 
Ingot  and  nugget,  bullion,  coin  and  ore, 
Deed,    bond    and    mortgage,    warrant,  note  and 

bill, 

For  money  is  the  engine  of  the  will; 
It  shakes  all  heaven  and  it  moves  all  earth, 
Draws  down  the  angel  Death — and  shapes  our  very 
birth! 

Get  money,  and  more  money,  and  still  more, 
For  damned  be  he  who  shall  continue  poor ! 
Remember,  whatsoever  you  shall  get 
Get  money,  and  more  money ;  still  more  yet : 
When  you  have  millions  you  have  not  enough, 
You  only  have  begun  to  get  the  precious  stuff; 
Get  on  and  on;  amass  ten  millions  more, 
Then  bury  that  beneath  a  greater  store. 
Like  Alexander  you  shall  never  mourn, 
For  money's  conquest  has  no  end  or  bourn; 


And  Other   Poems.  197 

This  ancient  earth  can  conquered  be,  but  gold 
The  more  its  conquests  are  the  more  it  shall  be- 
hold. 

Go  to,  I  say ;  put  money  in  your  purse ; 
The  lack  of  money  is  life's  greatest  curse ; 
Nor  think  this  satire,  for  you'll  find  it  truth, 
And  gold  will  rule  your  age  though  beauty  sway 
your  youth! 


THEY'RE  TRAINING  BOYS  TO  MURDER 
DOWN  ON  ARMY  STREET. 

They're  training  boys  to  murder  down  on  Army 
Street ! 

Throw  up  your  window  wide  and  hear  their  tramp- 
ing feet. 

They're  training  boys  to  murder  in  the  name  of 
God; 

They're  breaking  them  for  soldiers  with  an  iron 
rod. 

Each  bears  a  deadly  rifle  in  his  boyish  hands, 

And  now  the  captain  calls  aloud  his  stern  com- 
mands ; 

They  kneel — they  load — take  aim — you  hear  the 
triggers  click — 

And  they  have  learned  to  slay!  and  oh,  the  heart 
grows  sick. 


198  lone, 

The  little  children  follow,  mimicking  it  all, 
Held  by  the  awful  scene  as  by  some  magic  thrall; 
Then  back  unto  their  mother  hasten  from  the  drill 
And  beg  for  sword  and  rifle  that  they,  too,  may 
kill. 

They're  training  boys  to  murder  down  on  Army 
Street! 

Throw  up  your  window  wide  and  hear  their  tramp- 
ing feet. 

They're  training  boys  to  murder — in  God's  name, 
who  are? 

Why,  you  and  I,  and  all  apologists  of  war ! 


ROSA    LEE. 

0  Rosa  Lee  was  sweet  of  face 

As  one  of  heaven's  angel  race, 

Blue-eyed  as  Fancy's  youngest  heir 

As  blithesome  and  as  debonair; 

With  golden  curls  around  her  brow 

And  lips  as  sweet  as  swaying  almond  bough. 

As  rose-buds  wear  their  beauty,  she 
Her  beauty  wore — unconsciously; 
Nor  dreampt  how  fair  and  full  of  grace 
Her.  maiden  form  and  lovely  face, 


And  Other  Poems.  199 

Her  look,  her  smile,  her  lightest  glance, 
Her  sweet  refusals,  sweeter  complaisance. 

She  dwelt  beside  an  inland  sea, 
This  gracious  child  of  liberty: 
The  very  flowers  she  walked  between 
Took  on  a  lovelier  scent  and  sheen, 
And  brighter  ran  the  babbling  brook 
That  caught  the  beauty  of  her  darling  look. 

For  her,  I  think,  the  dews  were  made, 
And  golden  light  and  spangled  shade; 
And  well  I  ween  the  poets  came 
Into  the  world  to  praise  her  name: 
And  hearts  were  made  to  throb  and  beat 
And  cast  themselves  beneath  her  gentle  feet. 

A  mighty  lord  came  from  the  east, 
Whose  riches  daily  were  increast, 
And  courted  her,  as  rich  men  do, 
With  jewels  clear  as  morning  dew, 
With  gold  and  silk  and  linen  fine, 
And  castles  numerous  as  whisp'ring  pine. 

An  humble  youth  came  out  the  west 
Who  loved  her  only  and  loved  best; 
Whose  riches  were  a  simple  cot 
Where  honor  was,  though  glory  not, 


2OO  lone, 

An  upright  heart  and  constant  mind, 

Bright  hopes  before  him  and  bright  deeds  behind. 

0  Rosa  Lee  was  true  as  truth — 

She's  wedded  to  that  humble  youth, 

And  this  forever  be  her  praise, 

Lengthening  and  sweet'ning  through  the  days — 

She  might  have  ruled  from  south  to  north 

But  chose,  instead,  to  rule  one  true  man's  hearth ! 


HONOR. 

0  life  is  much,  and  love  is  much, 

And  beauty  all  adore; 
And  sweet  a  maiden's  gracious  touch, 

But  honor,  friend,  is  more. 

0  glory  leads  unto  the  height 
Where  but  the  great  have  trod, 

And  riches  lead  to  power  and  might. 
But  honor  leads  to  God. 

0  diamonds  and  pearls  are  brave, 

And  rubies  never  rust, 
But  honor  shines  within  our  grave 

And  dazzles  from  our  dust. 


And  Other  Poems.  201 


0  genius  makes  the  kingly  bard 
Whose  fame  the  ages  span, 

And  linkage  makes  the  mighty 
But  honor  makes  the  man. 


MOTLEY. 

We  make  too  much  of  farce  in  this,  our  time, 
Too  much  of  jest ;  a  dearth  of  serious  things. 
We  stoop  too  often,  and  instead  of  wings 

Wherewith  to  soar  to  solemn  heights  sublime 

We  wear  the  jester's  cloak,  and  play  the  mime 
On  all  occasions.     Ay,  our  very  kings 
Are   clothed    in    motley,    and    when   the    poet 
sings 

His  verse  is  nothing  if  not.  jesting  rhyme. 

Is  heaven  won,  or  sorrow's  tears  aye  stilled 
That  there  is  nothing  sober  to  attempt? 

Are  all  the  myriad  mouths  of  hunger  filled 
That  half  our  time  for  humor  is  exempt? 

Is  there  no  later  news  from  heaven  or  hell 

For  poets'  ears  to  catch  and  poets'  lips  to  tell? 


2O2  lone, 


0   POET,  BUILD    FOR   ME    A    SPLENDID 
POEM. 


0  Poet,  build  for  me  a  splendid  poem 
Wherein  my  soul  may  dwell, 

And,  in  the  sure  supremacy  of  truth, 
All  doubts  of  God  repel. 

Build  me  a  high,  unconquerable  hope 

That  atheists  cannot  shake: 
Build  me  a  moated  castle  of  true  faith 

That  doubt  shall  never  take. 

0  clothe  me  in  the  golden  mail  of  faith 

'Gainst  engines  of  despair, 
And  furnish  me  against  the  siege  of  doubt 

With  living  waters  there. 

0  worker  in  the  spirit  stuff  of  thought, 

Build  me  this  citadel, 
Build  me  this  moated,  heaven-kissing  seat, 

And  there  my  soul  will  dwell, 

And  living  faiths  shall  like  tall  sentinels 

Cry  down,  Who  goeth  there? 
And  naught  shall  enter  that  abode  of  light 

Save  who  is  heaven's  heir. 


And  Other  Poems.  203 

EROS  SEEKING. 

The  golden  sunshine  broods  o'er  fairyland, 
The  crystal  waters  meet,  and  kiss,  and  part; 

The  purple  mountains  rise  on  either  hand 
Far-distant  like  some  magic  dream  of  art; 

The  heavens  with  odorous  airs  are  fan'd, — 
But  Love  goes  searching  on  with  anxious  heart, 

Goes  searching  through  the  tender,  livelong  day, 

Aye  putting  by  the  flowers  from  his  onward  way. 

All  night  among  the  fairy  hills  he  sought, 
Nor  rested  when  the  morning  star  grew  dim; 

And  often  was  his  trailing  mantle  caught 
On  thorn  and  brier  and  overbranching  limb. 

All  night,  and  all  the  eve  before  he  sought 
Aye  by  the  pale  light  of  the  moon's  cold  rim; 

And  still  he  hastens  on  with  anxious  heart, 

And  still  his  troubled  breast  his  weary  wings  ex- 
hort. 

Ah !  where  is  Psyche,  his  immortal  Queen  ? 

He  cannot  find  her  anywhere  no  more: 
Not  in  all  fairyland  hath  she  been  seen 

Since  last  the  golden  tide  set  from  the  shore: 
Gone  as  a  bright  star  from  the  blue  serene 

Leaving  an  empty  space  to  tremble  o'er; 
Gone  as  splendor  out  of  fairyland, 
Evanishing  in  heaven  like  a  mist  thrice  fan'd. 


204  lone, 

0  Poets,  searching  in  a  land  of  dreams 
For  Beauty  with  the  red  rose  in  her  hair, 

Have  ye  seen  Psyche  by  Olympus'  streams 
Eesting  her  wings  upon  the  haunted  air, 

Or  in  the  white  light  of  the  moon's  bright  beams 
Sleeping  forgetful  of  her  love's  despair? 

0  if  ye  have,  then  hasten  with  the  news 

Back  where  young  Eros   weeps  amid  the  silver 
dews. 


LAUGHOLOGY. 

There's  palmistry,  phrenology, 

And  old  astrology, 

And  other  "sciences"  manifold 

To  tell  your  fate  and  get  your  gold. 

There  're  many  who  can  "see 
Your  fate  in  leaves  of  tea," 
Or  in  crystal  spheres 
Foretell  the  coming  years. 

But,  ah,  my  friend,  were  I 
The  least  inclined  to  spy 
Through  keyhole  small  or  great 
In  Time's  three-barred  gate, 
I'd  do  it  otherwise 
Than  by  reading  of  the  skies, 


And  Other  Poems.  205 

Or  human  hand  or  head, 
Or  leaves  of  tea  outspread,, 
Or  gazing  in  a  sphere 
Of  crystal,  smooth  and  clear. 

The  human  laugh  would  be 

My  chart  of  destiny, 

And  they  who  laughed  the 

Would  lead  the  rest 

In  everything  that  ?s  good 

For  woman-  or  man-hood; 

While  they  who  never  laugh  at  all 

A  merry  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Ho!  ho!  ho! 

For  them  I'd  prophesy  a  fall, 

And  failure  and  despair, 

And  wretchedness  and  care, 

An  empty  bosom  and  a  fortune  bare, 


0  SET  A  WINDOW. 

O  set  a  window  in  thy  soul 
And  let  it  face  the  True, 

And  plant  the  rose  of  Beauty  there 
And  water  it  with  dew. 


206  lone, 

0  cut  a  door  within  thy  heart 
And  give  to  Love  the  key, 

That  only  Love  may  come  and  go, 
Aye  debonair  and  free. 

0  build  a  highway  to  thy  brain 

Wide  as  Eternal  Truth, 
That  angels,  four-abreast,  may  come 

To  thee   in   age   and  youth. 

0  clear  the  waste-lands  of  thy  life 
And  plant  great  thoughts  and  true, 

Which,  like  tall  cedars,  will  draw  down 
Sweet  heaven's  rain  and  dew. 


LIVE  ON,  OLD  TREE ! 

Live  on,  old  tree, 

And  cast  thy  pleasant  shadow  o'er  the  ground! 
Be  thou  a  shelter  to  the  dove's  white  wing, 
A  living  choir  where  sweetest  birds  shall  sing: 
Let  all  thy  branches  be  one  sober  green 
Till  autumn  comes;  then  hap'ly  will  be  seen 
A  veil  of  saffron,  aureate  and  warm, 
Cast  over  thee,  as  by  some  magic  charm 


And  Other  Poems.  207 

Of  air  or  heaven :  then  come  winter  down 

And  robe  thee  in  warm  ermine  snow,  and  crown 

Thee  king  of  maples. 

0,  thou  faithful  tree, 
If  brutes  inherit  immortality, 
Shalt  thou  not  also  ?    Surely  thou  shalt  be 
Among  the  risen,  and  forever  stand 
A  tall,  green  angel  in  the  Holy  Land. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  WAR. 

I  am  the  Spirit  of  War,  and  inherit 
One-third  of  this  earth  for  my  own; 

And  millions  unborn  in  my  name  shall  mourn 
And  bleed  at  the  foot  of  my  throne. 


I  ride  on  the  blast,  and  my  wings  overcast 

Temple  and  church  and  home; 
And  I  sweep  to  their  doom  tall  cities  that  bloom 

With  a  splendor  never  on  Rome. 

I  fill  the  earth  with  a  ghastly  mirth, 
With  the  revels  of  drunken  men, 

With  the  mob's  wild  shout  and  the  licensed  rout 
Of  the  pillager  broke  from  his  den. 


208  lone, 

I  kill  the  bride  at  the  bridegroom's  side; 

I  slay  the  babe  at  the  breast; 
I  glut  the  grave  with  the  fair  and  the  brave; 

I  torture  and  burn  the  best. 

As  under  an  arch,  the  nations  march 

Under  my  wings  outspread; 
And  Death,  with  the  Fates,  in  my  shadow  awaits, 

And  Horror  uprears  her  head. 

Oh,  I  am  the  same  as  the  Fiend  but  in  name, 
Yet  the  preachers  call  me  sublime, 

And  the  poets  bring  unto  me  as  a  king 
Their  tribute  of  stately  rhyme. 

I  sicken  the  moon  with  corpses  strewn 

By  glade  and  by  field  and  by  flood : 
I  fatten  all  hell  with  powder  and  shell, 

And  gorge  all  her  furies  with  blood. 

To  my  lips  I  hold  up  as  a  chalice  or  cup 

The  skull  of  the  innocent  child; 
And  ravish  the  maid  that  I  have  betrayed,. 

And  flay  her  when  she  is  defiled. 

I  have  come  and  gone,  with  bloody  sword  drawn, 

Wherever  the  blue  sky  domes, 
And  have  dragged  an  iron  net  with  heart's  blood 
wet 

Through  every  bright  land  of  homes. 


Kn'd  Other  Poems.  209 

With  cannon  and  shell  and  the  banners  of  hell 

I  lead  my  myriads  on, 
And  where  at  dusk  was  a  land  of  musk 

Is  the  vale  of  Hinnom  ere  dawn. 

Oh,  I  am  the  sorrow  of  earth,  and  I  borrow 
The  pangs  and  the  torments  of  hell, 

And  I  rack  not  alone  the  flesh  and  the  bone 
But  I  torture  the  soul  as  well. 

Oh,  I  am  that  Shape  that  few  shall  escape, 
And  Death  has  built  me  a  throne, 

And  I  shake  the  earth  like  an  earthquake's  birth, 
And  bind  it  with  bloody  zone. 

And  whenever  men  make  an  excuse  for  my  sake 

The  devil  then  laughs  aloud, 
And  for  every  plea  in  favor  of  me 

Death  weaves  another  shroud. 


IN  THESE,  OUR  TIMES. 

In  these,  our  times,  when  time  is  everything, 
There  's  time  for  all  things  either  new  or  old : 
Time  without  end  for  gaming  and  for  gold, 

For  fashion,  nettle-like  of  bloom  and  sting, 


2io  lone, 

For  news  and  gossip  of  the  throne  and  king; 

For  novels,   plays,   and   players   manifold; 

For  sports  unnumbered:  time,  when  all  is  told, 
To  harp  a  thousand  tunes  on  folly's  string: 

Time  for  all  things,  save  poetry  alone, 

Save  rhyme  and  rhythm  and  their  melodious 

scheme : 
Save  Beauty  girded  round  with  jewels  of  tone 

Soft-pacing  by  the  bright  Aonian  stream: 
Save  distant  glimpses  of  the  dim  Unknown 
Through    poetry's    casement    opening    on    the 
Dream ! 


SO  DEEP  IN  LOVE  AM  I. 

0  could  I  sing  but  one  more  song, 

One  song  before  I  die, 
I'd  sing  of  love  to  thee,  my  Love, 

So  deep  in  love  am  I. 

0  had  I  but  one  other  dream, 

One  dream  before  I  die, 
I'd  dream  thy  face  was  shining,  Love, 

My  open  casement  by. 


And  Other  Poems.  211 

0  had  I  but  one  other  wish, 

One  wish  before  I  die, 
I'd  wish  thy  path  through  roses,  Love, 

Though  I  beneath  them  lie. 

0  could  I  take  one  treasure  hence, 

One  treasure  when  I  die, 
Fd  take  a  kiss  of  thine,  my  Love, 

So  deep  in  love  am  I. 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  YOSEMITE. 

Have  you  read  from  that  Book  that  was  written 

of  old, 
When  the  heavens  were  young,  and  the  planets 

new  hung 
On  hinges  of  diamond  and  gold  ? 

Have  you  read  from  that  volume,  that  wonderful 

tome, 

With  the  light  of  the  ages  a-glow  on  its  pages, 
That  Book  with  the  West  for  its  home? 

Have  you  read  its  great  metre,  its  marvelous  lines, 
With  a  wonder  of  thought  that  puts  Shakespeare 

at  naught 
As  brambles  are  dwarfed  by  tall  pines  ? 


212  lone, 

It  is  bound  in  the  purple  of  heaven  convex, 
And  its  characters  are  each  fresh  as  a  star, 
And  God  has  illumined  the  text. 

',T  is  a  lyric  by  morn,  and  an  epic  by  night, 

A  bright  drama  by  noon,  and  beneath  the  soft 

moon 
An  anthem  to  beauty  and  light. 

0  thou  Book  of  Yosemite,  Heaven  writ  thee, 
And  thy  verses  are  sung  in  bright  Heaven's  own 

tongue, 
And  run  through  all  harmony. 

In  the  glory  of  noon  I  have  read  thy  great  lines, 
And  re-read  thee  at  night  by  the  silver  moonlight, 
O'ershadowed  by  whispering  pines. 

1  have  read  thee  by  twilight,  and  read  thee  by 

dawn; 
And  re-read  thee  at  dusk,  when  the  earth  was  all 

musk, 
And  all  the  sweet  night  have  read  on. 

0  thou  Book  of  the  Soul,  oh,  thou  Volume  su- 
pernal, 

You  run  into  song  that  our  pulses  prolong, 
And  glow  with  a  freshness  eternal. 


And  Other  Poems.  213 

And  millions  unborn  shall  be  charmed    by    thy 


And  when  Homer  is  not,  and  great  Milton  forgot, 
Thou  still  shalt  be  read  of  the  ages. 


CALL  HIM  A  POET. 

Horny  his  hands  and  uncouth  is  his  speech, 

And  the  pen  unfamiliar  to  him; 
Born  to  the  soil  as  an  ox  to  the  plow, 

With  the  strength  of  an  ox  and  the  limb. 

Ah,  but  his  soul  is  a  true  poet's  soul, 
And  the  work  of  his  brain  and  his  heart 

Heaven  has  weighed  and  the  angels  have  praised 
As  the  bright  consummation  of  art. 

Not  as  a  closeted  singer  he  sings 

Till  the  heat  of  his  frenzy  grows  cold, 

Nor  as  a  poet  who  writes  and  writes  on 
For  the  guerdon  of  honor  or  gold; 

But  as  a  human  who  loves  and  is  loved, 
Who  has  taken  a  fatherless  child, 

Nurtured  it  kindly  and  made  it  a  home 
And  has  kept  its  young  life  undefiled. 


214  lone, 

Taught  it  to  honor  the  good  and  the  great, 

And  forever  beware  of  deceit: 
Shaped  its  young  soul  as  a  poet  his  dream, 

Immortal  and  rounded  and  sweet. 

Call  him  a  poet  who  labors  like  this, 
Though  he  never  has  written  a  line; 

Not  a  mere  maker  of  idle-sweet  lays, 
But  a  builder  of  beauty  divine. 


0    TAKE    THAT    PICTURE    FROM    THE 
WALL. 


0  take  that  picture  from  the 

And  cut  a  window  there, 
And  let  the  golden  sunlight  in 

Upon  the  scholar's  chair. 

0  take  that  battle  scene  away, 
That  work  of  blood  and  death, 

And  let  the  blue  of  heaven  in 
And  summer's  gentle  breath. 

Take  down  that  painting,  take  it  down, 

Unfix  that  bloody  scene, 
And  let  in  visions  of  the  sky 

And  meadows  sweet  and  green. 


And   Other   Poems.  215 

Make  way  for  heaven's  fragrant  air, 

For  glimpse  of  lambs  at  play, 
For  scent  of  ro^e  and  song  of  bird, 

And  waters  far  away. 

O  God,  we've  had  enough  of  war, 

Of  blood  and  death  and  fear; 
Of  manhood  bleeding  at  the  front 

And  dying  at  the  rear. 

Then  take,  oh  take,  that  painting  down 

Upon  the  schoolroom  wall, 
That  cruel,  bloody  scene  of  war 

With  death-dew  over  all. 

For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  oh  take  it  down 

And  cut  a  window  there, 
And  let  the  golden  sunlight  in 

Upon  the  scholar's  chair ! 


0   GOD,  IF  EVER  WE   HAD   CAUSE   FOR 
FEAR. 

0  God,  if  ever  we  had  cause  for  fear, 
For  deep  solicitude  and  anxious  care, 
If  ever  we  had  need  of  wakeful  prayer, 

This  is  the  season,  this  the  solemn  year ! 


216  lone, 

The  fatted  Time  has  turned  away  its  ear 
Deaf  to  Thy  chiding  whispers  on  the  air, 
To  dance  lasciviously  to  the  snare 

Of  luxury,  and  lust,  her  foul  compeer! 

A  storm  is  sweeping  up  to-morrow's  shore, 

Already  are  the  heavens  overcast; 
The  true,  far-seeing  prophet  shakes  before 

The  future  like  a  reed  before  the  blast ! 
What  can  we  hope  for  when  these  times  are  o'er, 

These  times  that,  conscience  whispers,  cannot 
last? 


'T  IS  BETTER  FAR. 

'T  is  better  far  to  be  unknown 

Than  't  is  to  be  forgot: 
To  never  have  achieved  a  name 

Than  know  oblivion's  blot. 

'T  is  better  to  have  gone  one's  way 

Unnoticed  and  unsung, 
Than  after  splendid  days  to  be 

Forgot  of  old  and  young. 

From  out  the  book  of  glory  struck. 
From  memory's  tablet  razed, 

A  looker-on  where  once  you  shone, 
Forgot,  unsought,  unpraised! 


And    Other   Poems.  217 

MAKE  ROOM  FOR  YOUTH. 

Make  room  for  Youth,  ye  gray-haired  sires, 

Make  room  for  Youth  and  daring; 
Make  room  about  your  council  fires 

For  Youth  with  kingly  bearing. 

He  comes — with  knowledge  on  his  tongue 

And  courage  in  his  heart, 
And  courage  never  is  too  young 

To  play  a  god-like  part. 

Make  room  beside  your  eldest  chief 

And  by  your  wisest  too — 
Who  banish  Youth  must  welcome  Grief 

And  all  her  retinue. 

Make  room  for  Youth,  for  kingly  Youth, 

Make  room,  I  say,  for  him — 
Afar  he  shall  discern  the  truth 

When  your  old  eyes  are  dim. 

He  comes  through  time's  star-blazoned  door 

With  eager  strength  and  laughter, 
With  Promise  pressing  on  before, 

Fulfillment  hasting  after- 


218  lone, 

THE    COLUMN. 

Those  stones   itand  longest  whereon  truths   ar« 
writ! 

Let  Justice  then  be  graven  in  the  base 
Of  yon  bright  column,  which  we  have  seen  fit 

To  rear  to  heaven  in  this  time  of  grace 

When  good  comes  to  all  men  and  comes  apace: 
Justice,  not  "Liberty";  Justice  and  Law! 

That  cycle  which  the  sure  and  coming  Race 
Shall  run  without  illusion,  and  shall  draw 
All  kingdoms  to  its  sphere,  as  Christ  of  old  fore- 
saw. 

We  live  for  sterner  and  for  deeper  truth 

Than  that  for  which  our  fathers  bled  and  died, 

And  not  to  "Liberty" — yet  without  ruth — 
We  rear  this  column  by  the  beating  tide. 
And  when  its  corner-stone  has  fallen  aside 

Its  sentiment  shall  still  be  sweet  and  strong! 
Yea,  Justice  shall  endure  and  be  our  guide 

When  "Liberty"  shall  have  become  a  song, 

A  closet-passion  that  the  bards  alone  prolong. 

To  Justice  and  not  "Liberty"  we  build 
This  stately  column  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Another,  brighter  morn  than  ours  shall  gild 
Its  crowning  arch  and  fretted  masonry, 
But  from  yon  blue,  eternal  canopy 


And  Other   Poems.  219 

The  sun  shall  never  shine  on  monument 
Reared  to  a  nobler  cause  and  destiny 
Than  this  we  dedicate,  without  dissent, 
To  Justice  and  to  Law — the  voice  and  instrument. 

We  know  that  "Liberty"  is  not  the  whole 
Of  that  high  destiny  whereto  we're  led, 

Nor  yet  the  noblest  part,  though  poets  enroll 
"Freedom"  and  "Liberty"  the  fountain-head 
Of  grace  unto  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Our  chief  concernment  it  has  ceased  to  be, 
And  has  become  a  name  less  heard  than  read, 

More  often  met  with  in  past  history 

Than  where  men  dare  and  suffer  or  on  land  or  sea. 

Ah !  not  that  "Freedom's"  stars  less  brightly  shine 

Do  we  to  Justice  dedicate  this  stone, 
But  that  in  heaven  has  been  seen  divine 

A  brighter  star  than  o'er  our  fathers  shone. 

Ah !  not  that  "Liberty"  has  been  outgrown 
And  no  more  can  delight  us  or  invite, 

But  that  "Liberty"  is  not  enough  alone 
To  lead  us  onward.    We  need  another  light 
Than  that  which  was  our  fathers — though  pleasant 
in  their  sight. 

The  spirit  of  our  fathers  is  put  by 

Ah!  not  because  our  kindnesses  transcend 

Our  fathers'  kindnesses,  but  that  we  descry 
A  glory  that  they   could  not  comprehend: 


22O  lone, 

We  work  not  nobler,  but  to  a  broader  end, 
We  are  not  sterner,  but  the  truth  is  more; 

We're  not  the  braver  but  we  apprehend 
A  deeper  meaning  than  has  been  before; 
We  look  beyond  the  stars  and  see  a  further  shore. 


Our  fathers  flashed  a  sun  to  light  the  world 
And  lo !   it  shows  us  fairer  worlds  beyond 

Whereto  we  move  with  "Freedom's"  flag  unfurled, 
But  Justice  now  the  spirit  and  the  bond 
Of  man's  best  feelings — which  shall   not  de- 
spond ! 

Our  fathers  made  us  fine  with  liberty 

And  we  are  finer  for  the  truth;  more  fond 

Of  justice  since  they  fought  to  make  men  free: 

Raised  by  their  works  we  grasp  a  broader  phi- 
losophy. 


0  DARKEN  THE  WINDOW  AND  DARKEN 
THE  DOOR. 

0  darken  the  window  and  darken  the  door 
And  take  this  red  rose  from  my  hair: 

0  go  from  my  presence  and  vex  me  no  more; 
0  leave  me  alone  with  despair. 


And   Other   Poems.  221 

0  let  me  forget  that  the  heavens  are  blue, 

0  let  me  forget  it  is  June: 
0  let  me  forget  that  you  vowed  to  be  true, 

0  let  me  forget — or  I  swoon! 

0  this  is  the  morning  when  we  were  to  wed, 

0  this  is  the  day  of  all  days ! 
And  now  you  avow  that  your  passion  is  dead, 

And  we  must  go  opposite  ways. 

0  well  for  your  soul  that  you  find  this  is  so 

Before  't  is  forever  too  late! 
0  well  for  your  soul !    Fare  you  well  now,  and  go, 

To  her  whom  you  love  and  not  hate. 

0  go  to  the  woman  that  stole  you  from  me, 

0  go  to  her  side  and  rejoice ! 
She  casteth  the  spell  of  the  wanton  o'er  thee, 

And  shame  lures  you  on  through  her  voice! 


HYPOCRISY. 

A  poet  writing  with  a  stolen  pen, 
Imparting  honesty  to  youth; 

A  harper  harping  on  a  pilfered  harp, 
Singing  of  truth; 


222  lone, 

A  robber  giving  alms  of  stolen  wealth; 

A  parricide  toasting  his  murdered  sire's  health ! 

Can  foul  hypocrisies 

Strike  deeper  root  than  these? 

Ay,  when  a  public  trust 

Is  used  to  glut  a  private  lust: 

When  war  is  forced  upon  a  land 
In  Liberty's  bright  name, 

That  some  official's  bloody  hand 
The  proper  moment  and  the  hour 
May  grasp  the  mane  of  power 
And  mount  to  wealth  and  fame 
And  cheat  an  injured  people  of  a  patriot's  acclaim ! 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

The  sun  of  Liberty  has  sunk  to  rest, 

Gone  down  in  depths  abysmal,  dark,  and  vast, 
As  sinks  Hyperion  into  the  west, 

Its  last  hour  loveliest — but  ah,  its  last, 
And  Tyranny  comes  forth  like  stormy  night 
When  wild  beasts  stalk  abroad  and  howl  from  erery 
height! 


And   Other   Poems.  223 

No  glow  of  Freedom's  golden  sun  remains 
Save  that  reflected  by  the  poet's  line; 

Gone  is  its  glory  from  the  level  plains, 

From  wood  and  mountain,  home,  and  fount,  and 
shrine ; 

And  we  who  watched  the  setting  of  that  sun 

Shall  never,  never  see  its  dawning!   No,  not  one! 

SECOND    VOICE. 

Who  can  call  back  the  morning,  or  bind  fast 
The  golden  sun  that  sinks  into  the  sea? 

Nor  man  nor  angel !   But  from  forth  the  vast 
Shall  dawn  another  morn  right  gloriously: 

So  shall  the  sun  of  Freedom  once  again 

Flame  in  the  zenith,  and  burn  from  Ind  to  Darien ! 


MY  LOVE  A  CONSTANT  BEAUTY  IS. 

My  love  a  constant  beauty  is 
A  constant  joy  and  wonder; 

Nor  artful  plot  nor  evil  league 
Can  part  us  'twain  asunder. 

She  dwells  along  a  flowery  way 

Where  sorrow  visits  never: 
I've  loved  her  since  the  roses  came 

And  I  shall  love  her  ever. 


224  lone, 

She  wears  one  jewel  on  her  breast, 
But  in  her  heart  an  hundred. 

Ah !  how  I  lived  ere  yet  we  loved 
I've  often  vainly  wondered. 


FOUR  BOOKS. 
I. 


This  book  is  like  a  little  sun 
As  warm  and  bright  and  golden 

And  gildeth  all  it  treats  upon 
Of  modern  times  or  olden. 

Dear  God !  it  shineth  in  my  face 

Whene'er  I  turn  its  pages, 
All  warmth,  all  cheerfulness,  all  grace. 

So  may  it  shine  for  ages. 

II. 

This  book  is  like  an  hermitage, 
Where  I  may  pass  at  even 

A  quiet  hour  with  poet  and  sage 
And  spirits  kin  to  heaven. 


And  Other   Poems.  225 

Where  there  is  much  to  speak  about 
And  more  to  love  and  rev'rence; 

Where  never  cometh  darker  doubt 
Nor  life  and  God  are  at  severance. 


III. 

This  book  is  like  a  good  old  man 
With  frosty  heart  yet  kindly; 

The  leader  of  a  little  clan ; 
Decided,  but  not  blindly. 

One  who  has  traveled  and  seen  much, 
Yet  holds  the  world  discreetly; 

And  though  with  but  a  few  in  touch 
In  touch  with  those  completely. 

IV. 

This  book  is  like  a  mighty  world 
In  the  firmament  suspended, 

From  forth  the  hand  of  genius  hurled, 
With  its  own  sun  attended. 

A  world  eternal  and  sublime, 
With  life  and  matter  teeming; 

With  its  own  mountains,  seas  and  clime, 
And  gods  above  them  dreaming. 


226  lone, 


THE   POET. 

Nobly  he  writes  of  what  was  nobly  done, 
Building  great  verses  on  from  sun  to  sun : 
Now  paints  a  god,  now  limns  the  hand  of  Fate, 
And  makes  his  verses  like  his  subject,  great: 
Now  hears  the  thunder  rolling  far  along 
And  echoes  back  its  voice  from  peaks  of  song: 
Now  clashes  mighty  verses  till  they  rock 
Like  war's  confusion,  or  an  earthquake's  shock! 
He  looks  upon  the  sunrise,  then  in  rhyme 
Reflects  its  chastened  glory  for  all  time: 
He  sees  the  gates  of  evening  open  wide 
And   the   silver   moon   come   forth   like   heaven's 

bride, 

Then  makes  it  evening  once  again  in  song, 
And  from  his  verses,  bright  and  clear  and  strong. 
As  from  another  east  there  doth  arise 
A  poet's  moon  that  climbs  the  azure  skies. 
He  adds  great  verse  to  verse  like  star  to  star 
And  with  his  hands  the  gates  of  truth  unbar. 
He  looks  on  lovely  summer  like  the  stream 
Reflecting  all  the  glory  and  the  dream. 
Like  some  charmed,  silent  household  Nature  ileepi 
Until  the  poet  comes  and  laughs  and  weeps, 
Then  Nature  through  her  myriad  halls  awakes 
A  living  thing,  that  breathes  and  joys  and  aches ! 


And   Other   Poems.  227 

When  all  the  gods  are  dumb  he  bravely  speaks 
And  Beauty's  end  and  not  his  own  he  seeks! 
In  crystal  verse  he  sets  a  crystal  thought, 
Or  tools  a  sonnet  like  a  gem  inwrought. 
His  lovely  verses  cluster  'round  their  theme 
Like  roses  'round  their  stem.    He  wakes  the  Dream 
That  sleeps  with  Silence  and  sends  it  forth  to  be 
A  glory  and  a  light  eternally ! 


HER  STEP  IS  MUSIC  AT  MY  DOOR. 

Her  step  is  music  at  my  door, 
Her  knock  is  sweetest  song; 

And  when  she  speaks  a  gladness  leaps 
Somewhere  my  heart  along. 

Her  face  awakes  the  man  in  me, 
Her  touch  awakes  the  god: 

I  am  no  longer  since  she  came 
A  dull  and  selfish  clod. 


TAKE  DOWN  THOSE  GIFTS. 

Take  down  those  gifts  you've  brought  for  me — 

Those  costly  gifts,  I  pray, 
And  hang  a  dream  upon  the  tree 

This  holy  Christmas  day. 


228  lone, 

Take   down  those  gifts   so   rich   and   rare 

Which  you  in  love  bestow, 
And  hang  upon  the  branches  there 

One  dream  of  long  ago. 


Hang  me  a  dream  of  darling  youth 

Upon  the  Christmas  tree, 
A  dream  of  glory,  hope  and  truth — 

Such  dreams  as  used  to  be! 


0  little  need  have  I  this  day 
Of  gifts  of  pearl  and  gold; 

My  hair,  you  see,  is  turning  gray 
And  I  am  growing  old. 


But,  oh,  for  one  bright  dream  of  youth, 
One  dream  of  boyhood  pride, 

When  life  seemed  honor  linked  with  truth 
And  love  walked  at  my  side. 


Then  take  those  costly  gifts  away, 

And  on  the  Christmas  tree 
Hang  me  one  dream  of  boyhood's  day — 

Such  dreams  as  used  to  be ! 


And  Other   Poems.  229 

0  LASS  OF  THE  LAND  OF  THE  LISTED 
LANCE. 

0  lass  of  the  land  of  the  listed  lance, 
0  maid  of  the  tilt  and  the  tourney, 

Send  me  a  glance 

From  old  romance 
And  my  heart  will  go  on  a  journey, 

Back  to  the  days  of  amour  and  armor, 
Of  herald  and  knight  and  esquire; 

The  days  of  chivalry, 

Love  and  revelry ; 
Days  of  the  lute  and  the  lyre. 

Days  of  the  joust  ere  armor  in  rust 
Hung  on  the  wall  unregarded: 

To  times  romantic 

By  shores  Atlantic, 
When  bards  like  kings  were  rewarded. 

There,  there  to  kneel  at  thy  feet  and  feel 
The  power  of  love  and  its  magic; 
Of  love  unacquainted 
With  days  that  are  tainted, 

With  days  that  are  tainted  and  tragic! 


230  lone, 


THE  HUMAN  TONGUE. 

The  tongue  has  parted  more  friends  than  death, 

Has  blasted  more  hopes  than  war; 
The  tongue  is  sharper  than  the  adder's  fang 

And  it  leaves  a  crueler  scar. 

The  tongue  can  heal  when  medicines  fail, 

And  under  the  human  tongue 
Is  the  balm  of  Gilead  which  bringeth  peace 

Whenever  the  heart  is  wrung. 

The  tongue  is  a  flaming  sword  of  truth, 

Or  a  serpent  coiled  to  sting : 
The  human  tongue  is  a  poisoned  well 

Or  an  angel-haunted  spring. 

The  tongue  is  a  fiend  forever  at  home, 

A  scorpion  hid  in  its  nest; 
A  foul  tarantula  shut  in  its  hole — 

And  woe  unto  they  who  molest ! 

The  tongue  is  love's  baptismal  font; 

The  wing  of  eternal  truth : 
The  surest,  keenest  weapon  of  God; 

The  armor  of  age  and  youth. 


And  Other  Poems.  231 

The  tongue  is  a  trumpet  that 's  keyed  in  hell 

To  summon  the  fiends  from  below : 
The  tongue  is  a  harp  from  heaven's  bright  choir 

And  its  music  makes  heaven  to  glow. 

0  never  a  witch's  broth  is  brewed 

In  the  foulest  depths  of  hell 
But  a  human  tongue  is  cast  therein 

To  treble  the  damnable  spell. 

0  never  a  drama  of  love  is  played 
But  the  chief  and  the  crowning  part 

Is  enacted  by  the  human  tongue 
Whose  cue  is  a  loving  heart. 

0  the  human  tongue  is  an  angel  bright, 

Or  a  devil  a-smoke  with  hell; 
And  over  all  life  has  power  to  cast 

Its  blessed  or  evil  spell! 


PLUCK  AND  LUCK. 

Now  gold  is  where  you  find  it,  lad, 

But  friends  are  where  you  make  them ; 

While  opportunities  are  had 
Wherever  you  awake  them. 


232  lone, 

Sometimes  our  dearest  friend  is  gained 
Within  the  f oeman's  castle ; 

And  Fortune,  bravely  entertained, 
Can  oft  be  made  our  vassal. 


Then  never  talk  of  "luck"  and  "chance"; 

They  have  no  sure  existence. 
Away  with  "happy  circumstance" — 

Naught's  certain  but  persistence ! 


Mere  luck  is  like  the  flowers  that  grow 
Upon  an  untilled  heather — 

A  little  while  they  bloom  and  blow, 
Then  die  in  frosty  weather. 


While  pluck  is  like  the  apple  tree 
That  bears  in  cold  November, 

Whose  fruit  you  pluck  right  merrily 
And  roast  in  golden  ember. 


And  true  pluck  has  a  luck  its  own 
That  luck  alone  has  never; 

And  you  will  leave  all  luck  alone 
Save  pluck-luck,  if  you're  clever. 


And  Other   Poems.  233 


DRIFTING. 

I'm  further  away  from  the  old  home-light 
And  away  from  my  father's  door, 

And  further  away  from  heaven  to-night 
Than  I  was  ever  before. 

I'm  further  away  from  Honor's  side, 

And  further  away  from  God, 
And  further  away  from  my  mother  who  died 

And  the  paths  she  blessed  and  trod. 

I'm  further  away  from  mercy  to-night, 

Yet  nearer  unto  my  grave: 
I'm  drifting  away  from  the  kindly  light, 

Drifting  on  sin's  dark  wave. 

I'm  nearer  than  ever  before  to  shame, 

And  nearer  to  evil  resort ; 
And  nearer  to  staining  my  father's  name 

And  breaking  my  sister's  heart. 

0  Fm  further  away  from  heaven  to-night 

Than  I  was  ever  before ; 
And  further  away  from  the  old  home-light, 

And  a  mother  who  comes  no  more. 


234  lone, 


0  THOU  WHO  ART  DIVINELY  GIFTED. 

0  thou  who  art  divinely  gifted 
With  the  bright  genius  of  song, 

Yet  who  never,  oh  never,  have  lifted 
Thy  voice  against  wrong: 

0  singer  of  a  thousand  sweet  lays, 

0  builder  of  beautiful  verse, 
Yet  who  never,  oh  never,  once  flays 

Sin,  or  its  curse. 

0  turn  from  the  paths  of  beauty, 
0  wake  from  thy  dreams  of  delight ; 

Gome  into  the  arena  of  duty 
And  smite  for  the  right. 

Come  forth  with  thy  magical  numbers, 
Come  forth  with  thy  star-pointed  pen: 

Shake  off  the  dream  that  encumbers 
And  mingle  with  men. 

0  the  lily  needs  not  thy  adorning, 
And  the  rose  is  lovely  enough; 

But  the  vicious  need  thy  warning 
And  the  proud  thy  rebuff. 


And  Other  Poems.  235 


Let  the  little  poets  and  the  narrow 
Sing  sweetly  of  beauty  and  youth ; 

Be  thou  a  swift-flaming  arrow 
In  the  quiver  of  Truth. 


THE  WHEEL  OF  CHILD  LABOR. 

0  the  wheel  of  labor,  the  wheel  of  child  labor, 

It  turneth  'round  night  and  day, 
And  oh  brother,  oh  sister,  oh  friend,  and  oh  neigh- 
bor, 

'T  is  wearing  young  lives  away. 

For  ever  and  ever  it  whirleth  around; 

No  pause,  no  cease,  no  rest  : 
It  crushes  our  little  ones  unto  the  ground, 

It  dashes  the  babe  from  the  breast. 

Oh  a  wheel  of  fire  is  the  wheel  of  child  labor, 

And  it  burns  to  the  very  brain; 
?T  is  crueler  than  either  the  sword  or  saber; 

'T  is  dark  with  a  bloody  stain. 

It  smokes  with  sacrifice  through  the  long  years, 
It  smokes  with  the  blood  it  has  spilled : 

'T  is  a  wheel  turned  'round  by  a  river  of  tears. 
0  God,  the  young  lives  it  has  stilled ! 


236  lone, 


Around  and  around  for  ever  and  ever, 

And  Death  goeth  'round  with  it; 
Around  and  around  and  the  toiler,  oh  never, 

Can  pause  till  the  worn  heart  split. 

Around  and  around  and,  oh  night  and  day! 

How  the  faces  of  the  toilers  change; 
How  they  change,  how  they  fade,  how  they  waste 
away, 

How  awful  they  grow  and  how  strange ! 

0  the  pity  of  it !     0  the  sorrow  of  it ! 

0  the  shame !  the  brutality ! 
0  the  crime  of  it !   0  the  horror  of  it ! 

0  the  black  inhumanity  ! 


A  PRAYER. 

Lord,  give  me  for  my  fortieth  year 

A  heart  for  any  fate; 
A  spirit  firm,  yet  not  severe; 

A  body  temperate. 


A  conscience  free  of  guilty 
A  hand  for  charity  ; 


And  Other   Poems.  237 

A  mind  above  the  little  creeds ; 
A  soul  that  dares  be  free. 

My  feet  upon  the  solid  ground 

My  head  the  stars  among; 
A  depth  that  gold  can  never  sound ; 

A  nature  ever  young. 

Good   health,   good   friends,    good   books,   pure 
thought ; 

A  mission   worth  the  while; 
A  lin'age  to  be  loved  and  taught; 

A  woman's  wifely  smile. 


0  WHEN  SHALL  DAWN  THAT  SPLENDID 
DAY? 

0  when  shall  dawn  that  splendid  day 

When  we  of  mortal  race 
Shall  gravitation's  anchor  weigh 

And  sail  the  seas  of  space? 

Leave  earth,  like  some  low  coast,  behind 
And    cleave    towards    the   moon: 

On!  on!  as  bounding  as  the  mind, 
With  all  the  man  in  tune. 


238  lone, 

Beyond  the  winds,  beyond  the  clouds, 

Through  meteoric  storms, 
To  where  eternal  darkness  shrouds 

World-without-end  alarms. 

Past  golden  planets  of  the  blest, 
And  dance  of  married  spheres, 

And  moons  all  pallid  with  the  rest 
Of  a  thousand  million  years. 

Past  worlds  that  are  but  matter's  ghost 
And  ancient  track  of  suns; 

Around  that  ultimate,  dim  coast 
Where  hoary   Chaos  stuns. 

On  waves  of  star-dust  sailing  fast 

Beyond  Orion's  seas, 
To  make  an  anchorage  at  last 

Among  the  Pleiades! 


ODE   TO   LIBERTY  BELL.  . 

Ring  out,  thou  blessed  Bell! 

Ring  out  the  King,  ring  in  the  State! 
Ring  out,  and  let  thy  music  swell 

To  heaven's  starry  gate! 


And  Other   Poems.  239 

Seraphs  have  thy  tongue  unbound, 
Seraph  faces  throng  thee  'round, 
While  in  thy  pauses  sweet  Heaven's  deep  organs 
sound ! 

Proclaim  sweet  Freedom's  name! 

Proclaim  that  blessed  hour  has  come 
To  which  the  martyrs  looked  through  flame 

In  holy  martyrdom ! 
Ring  thou  out  o'er  field  and  town, 
And  all  other  voices  drown — 
Long  hath  Freedom  been  crushed  down, 
Weaving  her  tears  like  stars  into  the  martyr's 
crown! 

Cease  not  that  blessed  note! 

Cease  not  that  holy  harmony 
Pouring  from  out  thy  brazen  throat 

Till  kings  shall  bend  the  knee ! 
Till  each  perished  hope  shall  rise 
From  the  tomb  wherein  it  lies, 
And  clothe  itself  in  living  light 
To  lead  a  People  through  a  revolution's  night ! 

Ring  out,  thou  blessed  Bell! 

Ring  out — a  glory  hath  been  born ! 
Ring  out,  and  let  thy  music  swell 

Above   the   rising  morn! 


240  lone, 

All  the  air  thou  solemnize 
And  this  hour  immortalize 
As  o'er  the  sun  of  Europe  a  brighter  sun  doth 
rise! 


HANNAH  MOORE. 

I  had  a  sweetheart,  but  we  parted 
At  one  sad  evening's  close; 

Alas!   we  quarreled  and  broken-hearted 
I  left  my  sweet  Irish  rose. 

She  lives  at  cottage  number  ten, 
Where    drooping   willows    stand. — 

0  might  I  see  her  face  again, 
0  might  I  touch  her  hand! 

I'm  waiting,  waiting,  Love, 

Until  you  smile  again, 
Until  you   welcome  me 

At  cottage  number  ten; 

The   little   cottage  home 

With  roses  o'er  the  door 
But  the  sweetest  rose  within — 

My  bonny  Hannah  Moore! 


And   Other   Poems.  241 

I  loved  my  Hannah  ere  we  parted 

Since  then  I've  loved  her  more; 
And  night  and  day  I'm  broken-hearted 

And  wish  our  parting  o'er. 

I  could  not  miss  the  sun  from  heaven 

Like  I  miss  Hannah  Moore: 
I  could  not  miss  the  stars  at  even 

Like  her  face  gone  from  the  door. 


A  MORAL  TALE. 

Now  listen,  friends,  and  I  will  tell 
And  tell  you  plainly  how  't  hefell 

I  got  this  grievous  crack: 
And  sure,  sweet  friends,  you  cannot  fail 
To  find  a  moral  in  my  tale 

If  you  but  have  the  knack. 

Look  where  my  head  is  broke  across: 
A  bitter  wound!  and,  oh,  the  loss 

Of  good,   red   honest  blood! — 
This  morning,  at  the  break  of  day, 
As  I  was  jogging  on  my  way 

I  came  to  Silo's  flood. 


242  lone, 

The  river  it  was  wide  and  dank — 
I  sat  me  down  upon  the  bank, 

And  as  I  sat  I  thought, — 
Then  came  a  robber  after  me 
And  fell  upon  me  grievously; 

And  thus  I  him  besought: 

"Good  friend,  or  if  not  friend,  'Good  sir/ 
Prithee,  put  up  thy  stick  of  fir, 

Nor  crack  my  pate  across: 
Why  should'st  thou  break  an  old  man's  head, 
As  gray  a  one  as  e'er  touched  bed, 

Or  bowed  to  king  or  cross  ?" 

That  villain  answered:  "God  defend, 
If  I  don't  crack  thy  noddle,  friend, 

Some  other  robber  will; 
And  I've  a  wife  and  family 
Who  need  thy  gold  right  grievously; 

So,  friend,  I  do  no  ill." 

And  then  he  broke  my  head  across; 
A  bitter  wound !  and,  oh,  the  loss, 

Of  good,  red  honest  blood! 
And  then  he  robbed  me  of  my  purse 
left  me  there  for  dead  or  worse, 

And  ferried  Silo's  flood. 


And  Other  Poems.  243 


HATE. 

The  quarryman,  quarrying,  sometimes  findi 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  a  stone, 

A  hideous,  horrible,  shriveled  toad, 
Aghast,  agape,  and  alone. 

So  in  quarrying  into  thy  bosom  to-day, 
I  found  that  thy  heart  is  a  stone, 

And  Hate,  like  a  toad,  is  squatted  within, 
Agape,  aghast,  and  alone. 


MAY  SUCH  BOOKS  PERISH. 

0  may  such  books  perish 
Once  and  for  all; 
May  no  man  cherish 
Print  them  or  scrawl! 
They  're  a  delusion 
Honest  men  know, 
False  in  conclusion 
Breeding  confusion,. 
Distraction  and  woe ! 
Put  them  behind  you, 
Don't  let  them  blind  you; 


244  lone, 

Hysterical,  empirical, 

Vain  and  chimerical, 

Bare  of  amenity, 

Truth  and  serenity; 

Stript  of  humanity, 

Lacking  all  sanity, 

Honor,  urbanity; 

Heavy  with  vanity 

And  fulsome  inanity! 

0  the  world's  trouble 

Forever's  made  double 

By  books  like  these; 

They  corrupt  half  our  youth. 

Demoralize  truth, 

And  blight  like  disease! 

They  're  all  for  detriment, 

Nothing  for  betterment, 

Tools  from  the  workshop 

Of  Satan  and  Sin, 

Evil  without  and  corrupt  within! 

Shame  on  their  publication, 

Stern  be  their  reprobation, 

Swift  be  their  condemnation, 

And  damned  be  their  preservation ! 


And  Other   Poems.  245 


0  THAT  GOOD  INK. 

0  that  good  ink 
Which  might  make  men  think 
Should  curdle  and  blink 
And  thicken  and  stink 
And  be  another  link 
'Twixt  man  and  the  devil 
And  all  that  is  evil! 


A  LYING  PRESS. 

Hell  has  no  torment  like  a  lying  Press, 
Nor  devils  can  devise  a  sharper  rack: 
No  torture  does  it  overlook  or  lack; 

Cold,  brutal,  agonizing,  pitiless! 

It  has  no  mercy,  knows  no  sacredness; 
An  Inquisition  of  the  soul,  as  black 
As  sunless  hell ;  a  shape  demoniac ; 

A  torture  without  hope,  without  redress! 

Its  type  are  scorpions  and  its  ink,  hell-fire, 
Its  staff  are  devils,  and  its  editor 

Another  Legion !    'T  is  a  Beast  of  Hire, 
Kept  for  the  coward  and  conspirator, 


246  lone, 

The  tneak,  the  scoundrel,  felon,  caitiff,  liar, 
Th«  bribed  judge  and  the  faithless  senator! 


0  FOR  A  SPARKLING  BOWL  OF 
LAUGHTER. 

0  for  a  sparkling  bowl  of  laughter 

That  bright,  authentic  brew 
That  leaves  no  sting  or  flatness  after — 

Such  as  my  boyhood  knew  ! 

With  gladness  welling  like  bright  bubbles 

From  out  its  depths  of  gold, 
Cleansing  the  heart  of  all  its  troubles, 

And  loos'ning  sorrow's  hold. 

0  for  a  goblet  overflowing 
With  the  bright,  authentic  stuff, 

To  lift  to  spirit  lips  all  glowing 
And  drink  till  I  cry  Enough ! 

0  once  again  to  drown  my  sorrow 

In  a  mead  too  sweet  to  last, 
Drink,  and  forget  the  bitter  morrow, 

Drink,  and  forget  the  past! 


And  Other   Poems.  247 


I     LIKE     TO     THINK     THIS     BEST     OF 
WORLDS. 

I  like  to  think  this  best  of  worlds 

Is  going  right  ahead ; 
That  some  new  work  is  done  each  da)' 

And  some  new  thought  is  said. 


"o1 


1  like  to  see  old  ways  forgot, 
Not  sneered  at  but  put  by, 

And  everything  brought  up-to-date, 
Beneath  the  dear  blue  sky. 

I  like  to  know  machinery 

Is  doing  half  the  work, 
And  men   and   women   need   no  more 

To  slave  like  beast  or  Turk. 

I   like  to  smell  the  factory  smoke 
And  hear  the  ring  of  steel; 

In  loom  and  forge  as  in  the  rose 
God  does  himself  reveal. 

I  like  to  know  that  thought  is  free, 

Nor  churches  prisons  are; 
And  men  no  longer  cast  their  kind 

'Neath  bigotry's  iron  car. 


248  lone, 

I  like  this  pleasant  time  of  ours, 

This  twentieth  century, 
When  there  's  enough  to  go  around, 

And  most  are  fat  and  free. 

Let  others  prate  of  other  days 
And  sing  their  doleful  rhymes, 

It  is  their  souls  that  are  poor,  I  think, 
And  not  these  kindly  times. 


LUTHER  AT  WARTBURG. 

Though  pardon  veils  her  face  in  brass 
My  soul  shall  suffer  no  affright: 
Upon  my  forehead  is  a  light 

That  falls  through  neither  stone  nor  glass; 

This  marble  where  I  come  and  pass 

Smells  sweet,  and  glows  the  livelong  night 
With  angels'  feet.     This  faith  upright 

Man  cannot  break,  though  he  harass. 

Thy  prisoner,  oh,  Roman  See? 
Nay,  I  am  free  to  follow  Him 

Not  followed  by  dull  feet  of  clay, 
But  by  the  spirit.     And,  ye  see, 
Although  these  castle  walls  be  dim 
There  's  light  enough  to  kneel  and  pray ! 


And   Other   Poems.  249 


I   THOUGHT    TO    WRITE    MY    NAME    IN 
GOLD. 

I  thought  to  write  my  name  in  gold, 
Where  all  would  see  and  praise, 

Where  neither  time,  nor  heat,  nor  cold 
Could  blemish,  blot,  or  raze. 

I  thought  to  seize  the  poet's  pen 

And  never  put  it  down 
Till  on  from  Ind  to  Darien 

Had  traveled  my  renown. 

I  thought  to  achieve  a  work  of  art — 

A  poet's  burning  lay, 
That  would  outlive  the  human  heart 

And  be  as  young  alway. 

But  ah!  the  master  bards  are  few, 

And  art  is  fearful  hard; 
And  I  have  failed — and  bade  adieu 

To  art  and  its  reward. 

And  now  I  turn — but  not  in  scorn- 
To  Duty's  lowly  cot 

To  die  unknown  as  I  was  born ; 
Content  to  be  forgot 


250  lone, 

Right  glad  at  last  that  kindly  deeds. 
And  love,  and  simple  tasks, 

Are  all  that  manhood  really  needs, 
And  all  that  heaven  askg. 


TAKE   BACK   THESE    HONEYED    SONGS. 

Take  back  these  honeyed  songs  of  love  and  youth 
And  give,  oh  give  me  youth  and  love  again ; 

Give  me  the  workings  of  a  boyish  heart 
And  take  the  music  of  the  poet's  pen. 


A  primrose  gathered  in  the  May  of  youth 

Smells  sweeter  than  the  queenliest  rose  of  song; 

Hope  drinks  its  dew,  while  'round  its  fragrant 

•  brim, 
Like  painted  butterflies,  bright  fancies  throng. 


Then  take  these  honeyed  song*  of  youth  and  love, 
Take  all  their  music  and  their  garnered  joy, 

And  give,  oh  give  me  love  and  youth  again! 
Ay,  take  the  poet  and  give  back  the  boy! 


And  Other   Poems.  251 

DUTY. 

Like  some  steep  path  that  leadeth 

Unto  a  verdant  lawn, 
The  path  that  leads  to  duty 

Still  leads  to  beauty  on. 

Yet  upward  and  yet  onward 

Until  you  gain  the  crest, 
Then  all  around  shall  dazzle; — 

The  footprints  of  the  blest. 


THE  BILLIONAIRE. 

"How  did  the  billionaire 

Amass  his  mighty  hoard  ?" 
The  People  asked  the  Poet, 

The  Poet  asked  the  Lord. 
The  Lord  leaned  out  of  heaven 

And  took  the  rich  man's  heart 
And  bared  it  to  the  Poet. 

(Well  might  that  Poet  start!) 
And  this  is  how  the  billionaire 

Amassed  his  piles  of  gold: 
As  sad  a  tale  as  ever  yet 

The  saddest  poet  told! 


2$2  lone, 


By  cheat  and  deceit, 

By  guile  and  by  wile, 

By  hook  and  by  crook ; 

By  such  deeds  as  would  shame 

The  devil  to  name ! 

By  robbing  and  jobbing, 
And  gambling  and  scrambling, 
And  fining  and  combining, 
And  squeezing  and  freezing, 
And  flaying  and  slaying! 

By  hoaxing  and  coaxing, 
And  duping  and  stooping, 
Eailroading  and  goading; 
Now  cheating  a  tenant, 
Now  bribing  a  senate! 

By  backing  and  sacking, 
Impeaching,  overreaching, 
Contending,  offending, 
And  sweating  and  betting, 
And  altering  and  paltering! 

By  checking  and  wrecking, 
And  luring  and  sluring, 
And  juggling  and  smuggling, 
And  driving  and  conniving, 
And  beguiling  and  defiling! 


And  Other   Poems.  253 

By  deluding,  intruding, 
Befooling,  false-ruling, 
Entangling  and  strangling; 
Now  watering  stock, 
Now  "shearing  the  flock!" 

By  jewing  and  sueing, 
And  plotting  and  boycotting; 
By  hocus  and  pocus, 
And  ways  insidious, 
Deeds  perfidious! 

By  hiding  and  dividing, 
And  shuffling  and  scuffling, 
And  shamming  and  damning, 
And  abusing  and  confusing, 
And  scarring  and  warring! 

By  pledging,  then  hedging, 
And  leasing  and  fleecing; 
By  the  sweat  of  another — 
A  friend  or  a  brother, 
A  sister  or  mother ! 

By  bribing  and  proscribing, 

And  loading  and  toad'ing; 

By  bickering  and  dickering; 

By  every  transgression  and  evil  concession 

And  act  unbecoming  a  Turk  pr  a  Hessian ! 


254  lone, 

By  exchanging,  arranging,  estranging, 
By   winking   and   slinking   and   stinking, 
And  lending  and  amending  and  pretending; 
By  gambling  in  meat  and  in  wheat  and  in  flour, 
False-voting,  promoting;  devoting  to  money  each 
hour! 

By   hurting,    diverting,   perverting, 
Debasing,  disgracing,  out-facing; 
By  buying  and  lying,  the  law  still  defying; 
By  crushing  and  hushing — 0  never  once  blushing ; 
And  steering  and   queering,  the  small   voice  of 
conscience  ne'er  hearing! 

By  corrupting  the  nation  with  bribed  'ministra- 
tion, 

Ward-heeling  and  stealing,  concealing  and  squeal- 
ing; 

By  great  sins  and  little  for  tithe  and  for  tittle ; 

Time-serving,  still  nerving  the  heart  to  worse 
crime, 

Valuing  nothing  that  's  sweet  or  sublime! 

By  annoying  and  decoying  and  alloying  and  de- 
stroying, 

And  supplanting  and  granting  and  recanting  and 
covenanting, 

And  fighting  and  back-biting  and  enditing  and 
slighting, 


And   Other   Poems.  255 

And  feigning  and  paining  and  straining  and  stain- 
ing, 

And  deceiving  and  grieving  and  thieving  and  be- 
reaving ! 

By  taking  and  breaking  and  raking  and  forsak- 
ing, 

And  waylaying  and  betraying  and  dismaying  and 
delaying, 

And  shaving  and  slaving  and  depraving  and  basely 
behaving, 

And  trading  and  evading  and  persuading  and 
masquerading  and  ambuscading, 

And  hating  and  adulterating  and  baiting  and  slat- 
ing and  inflating  and  falsely  legislating! 

O  this  is  how  the  billionaire  amassed  his  piles  of 

gold, 
The  saddest  tale  that  ever  yet  the  saddest  poet 

told! 


THE  MORAL  POET. 

His  poetry  is  a  shaft  shot  at  a  mark, 
A  flaming  arrow  hurtled  through  the  dark 
To  pierce  the  heart  of  Wrong  and  lay  it  cold  and 
stark. 


256  lone, 

It  is  an  engine  terrible  and  bright, 

Forever  standing  on  the  side  of  Right 

To  lay  the  evil  flat  and  let  in  heaven's  light. 

Or  is  a  deep,  prophetic  organ  voice 
That  gives  the  listening  soul  of  man  no  choice 
But  upright  ways  and  pure.  And  conscience  doth 
rejoice. 

He  is  an  archer  of  the  shafts  of  song, 

Not  for  the  dream  or  glory,  but  that  Wrong 

Shall  die  in  all  her  towers  the  wide  land  along. 


LOVE'S  PYROGRAPHY. 

She  's  a  picture  on  my  heart, 
Burned  by  Cupid's  fiery  dart, 
Drawn  by  Love's  pyrography, 
And,  behold,  right  gloriously ! — 
Golden  curls  to  twine  and  kiss; 
Eyes  like  stars  where  souls  in  bliss 
Dwell  forever;  creamy  brow; 
Cheeks  like  peaches  on  the  bough; 
Lips  like  rose  in  dewy  mist; 
Veins  like  running  amethyst; 
Oval  chin  and  swelling  breast: 
Lovely,  lovely,  I  protest ! 


And   Other   Poems.  257 

Though  I  may  forget  the  sun 
And  the  worlds  that  'round  him  run, 
Moon  and  star  and  lesser  light, 
Morn  and  noon  and  dewy  night, 
Summer,  winter,  autumn,  spring, 
Home  and  country,  church  and  king, 
I  shall  not  forget  her  name, 
Free  as  heaven  of  all  blame, 
Nor  her  picture  on  my  heart, 
Burned  by  Cupid's  fiery  dart, 
Drawn  by  Love's  pyrography, 
And,  behold,  right  gloriously ! 


I  DREAMT  THE  STARS  ARE  CHARACTERS. 

I  dreamt  the  stars  are  characters, 

(0  heart,  perhaps  they  are!) 
And  Wisdom  taught  me  how  to  read 

Them  from  afar. 


Methought  I  read  from  Orion 

Toward  the  Pleiades, 
Read  from  the  mighty  scroll  of  God 

His  mysteries, 


258  lone, 

Those  hieroglyphics  of  the  skies, 
The  countless  stars  of  night, 

I  read  their  eternal  argument 
By  their  own  light. 

And  waking  from  that  dream,  I  said 
0  heart,  perhaps  ?t  is  true; 

Perhaps  the  stars  are  letters  writ 
In  the  steadfast  blue. 

And  we  shall  some  day  ages  hence 
Make  all  their  truths  our  own, 

As  learning  once  interpreted 
The  Rosetta  stone. 


ALICE. 
I. 

O'er  yon  grave  the  stone  is  broken 
And  the  flowers  withered  all: 

There  no  loving  words  are  spoken 
And  no  tears  of  sorrow  fall. 

There  a  stranger  in  God's  acre 
Sleeps  beneath  the  withered  grass, 

Where  no  gentle  mourner  lingers 
Though  an  hundred  come  and  pass. 


And   Other   Poems.  259 

O'er  the  grave  a  broken  chalice 
For  no   wreath   collects  the  dew, 

But — beneath  the  sweet  name  Alice — 
Stand  unfilled  the  long  year  through. 


Alice!  't  is  a  name  for  heaven, 

For  a  soul  among  the  blest; 
'T  is  the  sweetest  name  e'er  spoken 

Where  young  angels  whisper  "Rest !" 

Alice!  }i  is  a  hope  I've  cherished 

Through  the  long  sweet-bitter  years — 

Hopes  have  sprung  and  hopes  have  perished, 
But  this  hope  lies  close  as  tears. 


II. 


She  was  fair  and  true  and  tender, 
With  a  more  than  earthly  grace, 

And  I  think  upon  the  lilies 
When  I  think  upon  her  face. 

For  we  parted  just  at  even 
In  a  garden  dim  and  sweet, 

And  the  last  bright  beam  of  heaven 
Crowned  the  lilies  at  her  feet. 


260  lone, 

Many  times  returning  summer 

Since  that  day  hath  waked  the  rose, 

Many  times  the  purple  aster 
Hath  been  gathered  to  the  snows. 

But  though  season  follows  season 
Alice  comes  not,  nor  is  led, 

And  I  ask  my  heart  the  reason 
And  it  whispers,  "She  is  dead!" 

Yet  I  hope  that  she  is  living, 
Though  I  fear  that  she  is  gone; 

And  that  fear  is  like  the  midnight, 
But  that  hope  is  like  the  dawn. 

III. 


Can  it  be  my  Love  is  sleeping 
Dust  to  dust  beneath  yon  stone, 

Where   a   graven   form   is   keeping 
Watch  in  silence  and  alone? 

Have  I  found  my  long-lost  Alice 
Where  Death's  ivy  ever  drips? 

Have  I  found  her  in  God's  acre 
With  life's  welcome  on  my  lips? 


And   Other   Poems.  261 

?T  is  the  same  sweet  name  of  Alice 
And  the  grave  is  just  her  length  I 

0  my  God !  did  Death's  rude  malice 
Touch  her  in  her  youth  and  strength? 

'T  is  that  same  far-distant  country 

To  whose  shore  she  turned  her  face — 

Here  she  journeyed  and  ere  winter 
I  had  lost  her  and  all  trace. 

Lo!  within  yon  broken  chalice 

I  will  plant  a  young  rose  tree 
And  beneath  the  sweet  name  Alice 

Write,  Beloved,  is  it  thee? 


OLD  DAN  MILLER. 

Old  Dan  Miller  was  a  rare  old  soul, 
Rotund  of  paunch  and  heavy  of  jowl, 
Fond  of  his  pipe  and  fond  of  his  bowl, 
His  laugh  contagion  and  his  walk  a  roll. 

Old  Dan  Miller  never  went  out 
To  mend  the  world  or  turn  it  about; 
Stayed  in  his  inn  and  swore  that  the  gout 
Is  trouble  enough  for  a  heart  that  is  stout. 


262  lone, 

Smoked  in  his  inn  and  vowed  to  his  wife 
That  a  quiet  life  is  the  only  life, 
That  trouble  and  losses  and  sorrow  and  strife 
Are  the  portion  of  travelers;  and  ate  with  his 
knife. 

Old  Dan  Miller  was  the  king  of  hosts, 

His  signboard  clattered  between  two  posts; 

He  had  his  tales  and  he  had  his  boasts, 

Had  been  at  nine  weddings  and  seen  three  ghosts. 

Old  Dan  Miller  was  merry  of  heart; 
He  held  that  to  laugh  is  never  an  art, 
Never  a  trick  or  a  thing  apart 
But  unto  a  man  as  the  wheels  to  a  cart. 

He  fattened  his  cattle  and  fattened  his  frau, 
Fattened  himself  and  his  pot-boy  Joe, 
Fattened  his  mare  till  she  hardly  would  go — 
Swore  that  good  fat  is  salvation  below. 

Old  Dan  Miller  was  true  as  his  word, 
Slow  to  be  moved  and  hard  to  be  stirred; 
Wanted  the  facts  as  the  facts  occurred, 
And  called  it  a  lie  when  the  truth  was  slurred. 

Rare  old  fellow,  in  faith,  was  Dan, 

Built  on  a  rare  if  peculiar  plan; 

Pinched  the  children  when  their  cheeks  were  tan, 

Sighed  when  the  children  were  peaked  and  wan. 


And   Other   Poems.  263 

Held  that  a  prayer  will  do  its  work, 

But  a  prayer  can't  finish  what  the  hands  shall 

shirk : 

Smoked  his  pipe  like  an  ancient  Turk, 
And  directed  his  pot-boy  with  nod  and  jerk. 


Old  Dan  Miller  was  known  to  dream, 
Singular  thing  though  it  may  seem; 
Dream  and  nod  and  nod  and  dream 
Over  the  kettle's  singing  steam. 

Dream  of  a  better  land  than  this, 
Somewhere  over  the  dark  abyss, 
Where  the  little  babe  would  never  miss 
Its  mother's  face  or  her  evening  kiss. 

Where  death  would  be  but  a  memory, 
And  his  own  little  boy  would  laugh  on  his  knee : 
Where  Tartar  and  Turk  would  at  last  agree, 
And  all  men  be  fat  and  all  be  free. 


Old  Dan  Miller  is  dead  and  gone; 
Green  is  his  grave  as  a  bowling  lawn: 
Lord,  may  I  meet  his  spirit  anon 
Keeping  an  inn  in  the  new  white  dawn ! 


264  lone, 


MY  LOVE  IS  FULL  OF  PRETTY  WAYS. 

My  Love  is  full  of  pretty  ways 

As  May  is  full  of  mallow. 
(Her  eyes  are  blue  as  mountain  pools, 

Her  hair  a  golden  halo!) 

My  Love  is  full  of  kindnesses 

As  June  is  full  of  clover. 
(No  sweeter  lass  has  ever  tripped 

This  golden,  wide  world  over!) 

My  Love  is  full  of  constancies 

As  March  is  full  of  myrtle. 
(She  brings  me  sunbeams  in  her  eyes 

And  pansies  in  her  kirtle!) 

My  Love  is  full  of  every  good 

As  Spring  is  full  of  grasses. 
(The  meanest  flower  knows  her  step 

And  sweetens  as  she  passes!) 


THE  POET  IS  A  DEITY. 

The  Poet  is  a  deity 

And  shapes  a  world  his  own, 
And  rules  it  from  his  steadfast  mind 

As  from  a  throne. 


And   Other   Poems.  265 

He  pours   around    it  lucent   floods 

Bends  o'er  't  an  azure  sky, 
And  doeth  all  things  lovingly, 

Both  low  and  high. 

He  makes  the  gentle  rain  to  fall, 

And  sets  the  golden  bow, 
And  builds  the  purple  hills  and  crowna 

Their  heads  with  snow. 

He  brings  the  seasons  in  their  turn — 

Mild  autumn  and  bright  spring; 
And  tilts  the  rose  with  morning  dew 

While  sweet  birds  sing. 

He  dances  forth  the  mountain  brook 

And  weaves  the  fern-leaf  there, 
While  piney  odors  rise  and  fall 

Upon  the  air. 

He  hangs  the  heavens  with  new  stars 

Down  all  the  zodiac, 
And  with  his  hand  upbuilds  the  weit 

With  sunset  rack. 

He  calls  the  forked  lightning  down 

And  hurls  the  thunderbolt, 
And  makes  his  heavens  now  to  smile, 

Now  to  revolt. 


266  lone, 

He  shapes  a  thousand  human  souls 

Of  high  and  low  degree, 
And  puts  them  down  upon  his  world 

To  dwell  and  be; 

And  gives  them  human  hearts  and  minds 
And  human  love  and  longing, 

And  sets  the  shapes  of  Destiny 
Amidst  them  thronging. 


IF  SHE  SHOULD  DIE  TO-NIGHT. 

If  she  should  die  to-night, 

I'd  call  to  mem'ry  then, 
With  soul  contrite, 

All  sad  occasions  when 
I  wronged  that  gentle  heart  of  hers, 
Which  now — 0  God! — so  faintly,  weakly  stirs. 

If  she  should  die  to-night, 

How  every   wrong  of  mine 
And  petty  spite 

Shown  her  who  gave  no  sign, 
Would  grow  and  wax  upon  my  soul 
And  sting  me  with  remorse  past  all  control. 


And  Other  Poems.  267 

If  she  should  die  to-night, 

The  few,  few  faults  she  had 
Would  seem  how  slight! 

And  I  should  deem  me  mad 
To  ever  once  have  spoken  ill 
To  her  whose  place  not  all  this  world  can  fill! 

If  she  should  die  to-night, 

0  then  I  would  recall, 
With  heart  contrite, 

Those  many  seasons  all 
Wherein  were  means  to  testify 

My  love  for  her,  but  which  I  let  pass  by. 

If  she  should  die  to-night, 

How  stained  my  soul  would  seem, 
But  hers — how  white! 

How  like  a  selfish  dream 
My  past  would  then  appear  to  me; 
While  hers — how  rich,  how  filled  with  charity! 


FATE. 

Thou  stern,  inscrutable,  eternal  Fate, 

Like  he  who  scourged  the  ocean  in  his  hate 

Thinking  to  punish,  even  so  are  we 

Who  in  our  weakness  lift  a  voice  'gainst  thee ! 


268  lone, 

How  futile,  then,  must  all  arraignment  seem 
Hurled  'gainst  thy  godhead !   Futile  as  a  dream, 
Or  engine  hurtled   'gainst   the  morning  mist 
Which,  ere  't  is  troubled,  ceases  to  exist. 
Yet,  agonized,  tormented,  full  of  pain, 
Still  shall  humanity  thy  ways  arraign ; 
Still  storm  thy  ear  as  some  high  citadel, 
To  take  it  never :  nor  shalt  thou  repel 
Its  vain  advance.    The  desert  sphinx  art  thou, 
Humanity  the  wandering  airs  that  blow 
Forever  'round  thee:  still  thou  lookest  down, 
Unmoved,  unriddled,  without  smile  or  frown! 


THE  PRESENT. 

The  Past  is  dead,  the  Future  yet  unborn ; 

The  Present — Lo !  't  is  with  me  this  new  morn, 

An  all-familiar  spirit  by  my  side 

From  which  I  gladly  would  yet  cannot  hide. 

It  follows  me;  by  God,  it  mocks  me  now! 

I'll  speak;  perhaps  't  will  fade  away: 

"0  thou 

Familiar  Spirit,  wherefore  vex  me  so  ? 
Thou  wast  a  stranger  but  an  hour  ago ; 
I  neither  knew  thee  nor  didst  thou  know  me ; 
Then  wherefore  shouldst  thou  be  mine  enemy  ?" 


And   Other   Poems.  269 

"Thou  never  knew  me !  Hast  thou  then  forgot 
Thou  spurned  me  yesterday,  thou  foolish  sot? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  and  so  soon  forgot!" 
"By  Christ,  I  never  spurned  thee !    Nay,  what  's 

more, 

I  never  looked  upon  thy  form  before. 
Thou  art  a   lying   Present!    Hence,   Ingrate, 
I  hear  the  Future  knocking  at  Time's  gate. 
She  comes — make  way — she  comes,  my  queen,  my 

bride — 
Already  I  feel  her  presence  at  my  side!" 

"0  unprophetic,  unrecollecting  fool, 

Thou  novice  in  experience's  school, 

I  am  that  Future  knocking  at  Time's  gate, 

I  am  the  spirit  of  the  Past  you  hate, 

And  I'm  the  Present,  too — the  awful  Now 

To  whom  the  angels  of  the  Lord  do  bow ! 

Go  cleanse  thy  heart,  and  come  and  honor  me, 

Then  shall  the  Future  be  as  a  bride  to  thee, 

And  all  the  past  a  blessed  memory." 


MY  HEAET  IS  WITH  MY  BEES  TO-DAY. 

My  heart  is  with  my  bees  to-day, 

Across  the  summer  lea, 
For  there  the  clover  is  in  spray 

And  Nellie  waits  for  me, 


270  lone, 

Her  hair  a  bank  of  sunshine  is 
And  fragrant  as  the  south: 

I'd  rather  kiss  its  slightest  curl 
Than   another   maiden's   mouth! 

Her  lovely  voice  is  sweeter  far 
Than  music  in  a  dream ; 

Her  eyes  are  liquid  as  a  star 
That  shineth  in  a  stream. 

I'd  not  exchange  an  hour  with  her 
For  heaven's  longest  June, 

For  Paradise  without  my  Nell 
Were  a  song  all  out  of  tune. 


SHALL  LOVERS  DWELL  APAET? 

My  happy  heart  goes  on  before, 
My  feet  they  hasten  after : 

Within  my  bosom  is  a  store 
Of  undefiled,  warm  laughter. 

I  hear  the  blackbird's  whistle  clearly, 
I  hear  the  mock-bird's  call: 

I  take  the  path  I  love  so  dearly 
And  skirt  the  garden  wall. 


And   Other   Poems.  271 

Beneath  her  roses  she  is  waiting, 

The  Musk-rose  of  my  heart! 
0  say,  while  all  the  birds  are  mating 

Shall  lovers  dwell  apart? 


HER  FORTUNE. 

"'Your  face  is  your  fortune/  my  pretty  maid; 
'Your  face  is  your  fortune/  dear,"  he  said: 
"Your  golden  hair  and  your  eyes  of  blue, 
Your  cheeks  like  'roses  new  washed  in  dew/ 
Your  creamy  brow  and  your  dimpled  chin, 
Your  Cupid's  mouth  and  the  pearls  within: 
'Your  face  is  your  fortune';  then  come  with  me 

To  my  castles  three 

Over  the  bright  blue  sea: 
And  tarry  not,  dear,  for  the  nuptial  troth, 
For  love  is  the  wine  and  marriage  the  froth ; 
And  tarry  not,  dear,  for  the  bright  wedding  ring, 
But  be  you  my  queen  and  I'll  be  your  king, 

And  over  the  dew, 

All  under  the  blue, 

We'll  hasten  away  to  those  castles  three 
Where  Rapture  is  calling  to  you  and  to  me!" 


2jz  lone, 

"Oh  no,  oh  no !"  cried  the  pretty  maid, 
"My  honor's  my  fortune,  ?ny '  she  said : 
"A  stainless  name  and  a  plighted  troth — 
These  are  the  wine  and  beauty  the  froth: 

And  your  castles  three 

Over  the  bright  blue  sea 
Shall  ne'er  be  the  tomb  of  Honor  and  me." 


THE  PROPHET. 

"Alas !"  they  said, 
"Our  hands  are  red 

With  blood  of  prophet  slain ! 
But  ah,  dear  God, 
Spare  Thou  the  rod 

And  send  Thy  seer  again. 

"We  did  not  know 
WTho  struck  him  low 

That  he  was  seer  of  Thine; 
We  did  not  guess 
He  came  to  bless ; 

We  could  not  read  Thy  sign. 

"The  truth?  he  taught, 
The  deeds  he  wrought, 


And   Other   Poems.  273 

To  us,  ah,  what  were  they! 

We  called  him  fool 

Both  church  and  school, 
And  stoned  him !    Woe  the  day ! 

"But  ah,  dear  God, 

Put  back  the  sod 
That  's  green  above  his  grave: 

Give  him  again 

Into  our  ken — 
We  know  his  lips  can  save. 

"Give  back  the  dead, 

The  seer  that  's  fled, 
And  we  will  homage  do; 

Low  at  his  feet 

We'll  take  our  seat, 
And  learn  of  him  we  slew." 

The  good  God  heard 

The  people's  word, 
And  did   their  prayer   fulfill: 

But  lo!  He  gave 

That  seer  from  the  grave 
A  broader  wisdom  still. 

He  raised  that  seer, 
Dead  many  a  year, 


274  lone, 

And  gave  him  back  to  men; 

But  gave  his  brain 

A  richer  vein, 
His  hand  a  wiser  pen. 

From  field  and  waste 

The  people  haste 
To  catch  this  prophet's  fire. 

He  speaks — and  lo! 

With  shock   and   blow 
They  tread  him  in  the  mire. 

Then  God  in  pain — 
"Why  hast  thou  slain 

This  prophet  of  my  soul? 
Dost  thou  not  know 
Thou  hast  struck  low 

Thy  seer  again  made  whole  ?" 

"0  hear,  dear  God, 
And  spare  the  rod!" 

The  fearful  people  groan: 
"Lo !  o'er  that  seer 
Dead  many  a  year 

We  reared  a  church  of  stone. 

"The  truths  he  taught, 
The  deeds  he  wrought, 


And   Other   Poems.  275 

We  made  religion  of, 

And  knelt  we  down, 

Both  king  and  clown, 
And  honored  it  in  love. 


"And  he  we  stoned 
To-day  disowned 

That  holy  church  and  law: 
He    said   that   we 
In  darkness  be ; 

Our  best  is  only  flaw. 


"And  this  to  us 

Was  blasphemous; 
We  stoned  him !   Woe  the  day ! 

But  hear,  dear  God, 

Spare  Thou  the  rod, 
And  give  him  back,  we  pray. 


"Give  back  the  dead, 
The  seer  that  'B  fled, 

And  we  will  homage  do; 
Low  at  his  feet 
We'll  take  our  seat, 

And  learn  of  him  we  slew/' 


276  lone, 


TWO   FRIENDS. 

Two  friends  I  had:     Both  went  away; 
I  heard  of  them  but  yesterday. 
One  journeyed  east,  the  other,  west; 
Both  loved  a  song,  both  loved  a  jest, 
And  both  were  quick  to  understand, 
Of  open  heart  and  warm  of  hand. 
In  height  about  the  same,  in  face 
Alike  as  brothers  of  one  race 
Though  not  one  common  parentage, 
And  equal,  so  I  think,  in  age: 
Their  fortunes  were  about  the  same, 
Ambitions  much  alike,  and  aim: 
And  so  they  went  away,  these  two, 
As  friends  have  done  and  daily  do, 
One  journeyed  west,  the  other,  east; 
And  which  was  greater,  which  was  least, 
In  honor,  manhood,  heart,  and  head, 
Not  for  my  soul  could  I  have  said. 
But  now — why  now  I  hear  it  told 
That  one  has  bartered  truth  for  gold, 
Uncrowned  himself  of  honor's  crown, 
Pawned  all  its  jewels,  and  dashed  it  down, 
And  without  turning,  where  he  stands 
Can  touch  a  prison  with  his  guilty  hands ! 


And   Other   Poems.  277 

While  he,  that  other  friend  I  had, 

Has  gone  up  higher:  made  the  mother  glad 

That  bore  him,  and  a  nation  proud 

To  touch  his  hand  and  name  his  name  aloud! 


HOW  SOON  A  NATION  CAN  FORGET,  0 
LORD! 


How  soon  a  nation  can  forget,  0  Lord, 

How  soon  forget  its  troubled  past,  and  sleep 

In  easy  negligence,  nor  longer  keep 
At  every  door  and  gate  stern  watch  and  ward! 
How  soon  a  land  is  taken  from  its  guard 

When  plenty  smiles  again  and  bread  is  cheap ; 

How  soon  forgets  it  late  had  cause  to  weep, 
When  spoilsmen  ruled  and  times  were  bitter  hard ! 
0  let  us  then  remember  ere  too  late, 

That  only  yesterday  grim  hunger's  ghost 
Walked  in  the  land  and  troubled  all  the  state, 

While  knaves  and  spoilsmen  ruled  from  coast  to 

coast. 
And  shall  we  sleep  forgetful  of  such  fate? 

Call  up  the  sentries !     Send  them  to  their  post ! 


278  lone, 


THE  HOURS. 

We  lightly  speak  of  killing  Time, — 

0  't  is  not  Time  we  kill; 
It  is  an  angel  in  disguise 

That  serves  God's  will. 

The  Hours — they  are  living  things 

Not  marks  upon  a  dial, 
Tall  cherubim  that  come  and  go 

In  single  file. 

And  some  are  clad  in  sombre  black, 

And  some  in  faded  gray, 
While  others  come  in  living  gold 

And  bright  array. 

Some  bear  the  hawthorn  in  their  hands, 

Some  bring  the  bitter  rue; 
While  others  hold  a  red,  red  rose 

All  bright  with  dew. 

They  come !  No  king  can  stay  their  march, 

No  hand  turn  them  aside; 
They  move  like  stately  angels,  or 

Like  spirits  glide. 


And   Other   Poems.  279 

Not  one  is  missing  from  his  place, 

Not  one  but  passes  on ; 
A  little  while  they  are  with  us 

And  then  they  're  gone. 

From  whence  they  come  or  whither  go 

No  mortal  man  can  say, 
But  by  their  shining  brows  we  guess 

They  've  passed  His  way. 

0  Christ !  it  were  an  awful  thing 

To  harm  the  least  of  these, 
For  they  are  servitors  of  Him 

Whom  we  would  please. 

They  are  His  angels  in  disguise, 

Bright  shapes  solicitous, 
And  as  we  measure  unto  them 

So  He  to  us! 


NOTHING  COMES  OF  IT. 

I've  tried  and  tried  and  tried  again, 

But  nothing  comes  of  it. 
I've  hoped  and  labored  as  few  men, 

But  nothing  comes  of  it. 


280  lone, 

I've  done  the  very  best  I  could, 
But  nothing  comes  of  it. 

I  have  been  faithful,  as  I  should, 
But  nothing  comes  of  it. 


I've  toiled  on  water  and  on  land, 

But  nothing  comes  of  it. 
I've  labored  with  both  brain  and  hand, 

But  nothing  comes  of  it. 


Fve  risen  early,  late  retired, 

But  nothing  comes  of  it. 
I've  often  done  more  than  required, 

But  nothing  comes  of  it. 


I've  studied  to  improve  my  work, 
But  nothing  comes  of  it. 

And  rarely,  rarely  do  I  shirk, 
But  nothing  comes  of  it. 


All  told,  I've  done  the  work  of  three, 
But  nothing  comes  of  it. 

I've  sweated  blood,  it  seems  to  me, 
But  nothing  comes  of  it. 


And   Other   Poems.  281 

LIFE'S    FAILURES. 

Be  not  so  rudely  harsh  with  us 

Though  we  are  failures  all, 
Though  we  have  fallen  in  the  strife 

And  lower  still  may  fall. 

What  though  we  wear  no  laurel  wreath 

And  grasp  no  victor's  prize, 
We  still  have  hearts  that  wrong  can  break, 

Still  tears  can  dim  our  eyes. 

Still  we  are  feeling  flesh  and  blood, 

Though  humbled  in  the  dust; 
Still  pray  we  to  one  kindly  Judge 

And  labor  still,  and  trust. 

And  Fate  cannot  so  bar  success 

But  God  will  leave  a  way, 
That  none  may  have  so  wholly  failed 

But  shall  succeed — some  day! 


I  KNOW.  I  KNOW. 


I  know,  I  know  why  the  rose  is  so  red, 

Why  the  dews  like  a  carpet  of  pearl  are  spread, 


282  lone, 

Why   the   nightingale   sings   from   the   wood  all 

night, 
And  the  moon  is  enthroned  on  a  mountain  of 

light! 

I  know,  I  know  why  the  poet  is  awake, 

Why  the  mocking-bird  calls  from  the  hawthorn 

brake, 

Why  Beauty  is  walking  abroad  to-night, 
And  the  east  is  clothed  in  a  mystic  light ! 


I  know,  I  know  why  the  silvery  fall 
Doth  murmur  and  sigh  and  whisper  and  call, 
Why  the  youngest  flowers  are  awake  to-night, 
And  Love's  brightest  arrow  has  sped  on  its  flight ! 

I  know,  I  know  why  the  stars  are  all  gold, 
Why  the  sweetest  story  is  yet  untold, 
Why  the  mountain  pool  is  astir  to-night, 
And    heaven    will    not    let    the    earth    from    its 
sight ! 

For  Lydia,  bright  Lydia  is  coming  at  morn 
Back  unto  the  castle  where  she  was  born, 
And  nature  is  welcoming  her  all  night 
With  beauty  and  fragrance  and  music  and  light ! 


And  Other  Poems.  283 


THE  STORM. 

A  storm  is  sweeping  through  my  heart 

With  lightning  and  with  hail, 
And  I  am  beaten  to  the  earth 

Beneath  its  jagged  flail. 

My  soul  is  shaken  like  a  tree 

And  stript  of  all  its  bloom; 
Borne  down  before  the  hurricane, 

Aghast  beneath  the  gloom. 

Wild  thoughts  are  surging  through  my  brain 

Like  panic-stricken  things ; 
Like  beast  and  reptiles,  tempest-lashed, 

And  birds  with  blasted  wings. 

I  hear  the  nearing  thunders  now 

Of  conscience  and  of  fear; 
They  split  my  'guilty  soul  in  twain 

And  blast  my  wild  career. 

The  storm  of  God  is  on  my  head, 

His  awful  hurricane, 
And  crushes  me  unto  the  earth 

In  body,  soul  and  brain! 


284  lone, 


PALMISTRY. 

What !  do  I  understand 

My  fortune  's  in  my  hand — 

That  here  is  writ 

In  the  palm  of  it, 

In  lines  that  meet  and  cross, 

All  I  shall  he 

Or  do  or  see — 

My  every  gain  and  loss: 

Life's  history, 

Death's  mystery; 

Each  pleasure  rare, 

Each  deep  despair, 

And  all  things  whatsoe'er  the  future  holds  for  me  ? 

It  is  a  lie, 

And  but  for  coward  souls  would  die! 

I  hold  my  fortune  in  my  hand, 

But  hold  it  there  at  my  command : 

It  rests  with  me 

What  I  shall  he. 

And  do  and  see, 

And  take  and  leave, 

Adventure  and  achieve! 

I  am  the  master  of  my  brain  and  brawn 

And  not  necessity's  ignoble  spawn: 


And  Other   Poems.  285 

I  hold  my  fortune  in  my  hand  indeed 

But  not  in  fleshy  lines  that  human  art  can  read ! 

Let  knaves  teach  fools 

The  folly  of  the  palmist  schools, 

And  stoop  their  souls  to  shallow  rules, 

No  fate  embalms 

My  fortune  in  my  palms 

And  turns  a  reverseless  key 

'Twixt  what  I  am  and  what  I'd  be! 

The  future  of  a  man  is  nowhere  writ, 

Nor  yet  in  whole  nor  part, 

And  angels  can  but  guess  at  it, 

To  miss  or  hit 

By  chance,   not  art. 

The  soul  is  free, 

And  ever  was,  and  ever  it  shall  be, 

And  can  achieve  the  fortune  that  it  dare, 

And  dare  achieve  all  fortunes  whatsoe'er! 


I  LOVED  YOU  FOR  YOUR  BEAUTY  FIRST, 

I  loved  you  for  your  beauty  first, 
Then  loved  you  for  your  mind, 

Your  gracious  wealth  of  character, 
Your  spirit  pure  and  kind. 


286  lone, 

You  have  a  manner  all  your  own 

I  cannot  well  express, 
And  sweeter  than  the  viol  is 

The  music  of  your  dress. 

You  wear  your  learning  like  the  rose 
That  trembles  in  your  hair, 

Where  half  concealed  amidst  your  curls 
It  makes  you  doubly  fair. 

0  could  I  seal  my  love  to-night 
Beneath  the  fragrant  flowers, 

Then  how  much  sweeter  were  my  rest 
And  all  my  waking  hours! 


I  WOULD  NOT  HURT  HER  LITTLE  HAND. 

I  would  not  hurt  her  little  hand, 
But  my  poor  heart  breaks  she; 

I'd  die  for  her  on  sea  or  land 
Yet  she  '11  not  smile  for  me. 

She  dwells  my  father's  fields  above 

Beside  the  old  mill-stone, 
This  blue-eyed  lass  that  I  may- love 

But  never  call  my  own. 


And  Other  Poems.  287 

Yet  though  she  loves  another  youth 

I  love  the  maiden  still, 
For  love  like  mine,  all  trust  and  truth, 

May  not  be  changed  at  will. 


NOT  ALWAYS. 

0  't  is  not  always  the  golden  pen 
That  writes  the  golden  thought: 

0  ?t  is  not  always  the  richest  men 
Whose  favors  most  widely  are  sought. 

0  't  is  not  always  the  fairest  in  face 
We  love  the  longest  and  best:  • 

0  't  is  not  always  the  first  in  the  race 
We  ask  to  be  our  guest. 

Not  always  our  chiefest  thanks  are  his 
Who  plays  the  chiefest  part: 

And  the  first  in  rank  not  always  is 
The  first  within  our  heart. 

O  't  is  not  always  the  king  that  rules; 

Not  always  the  mighty  overcome: 
Not  always  from  forth  the  greatest  schools 

The  greatest  scholars  come. 


288  lone, 

0  't  is  not  always  the  prince  or  the  lord 

Who  plays  the  kingliest  part: 
And  't  is  not  always  the  grandest  bard 

Who  sings  right  into  our  heart. 

0  't  is  not  always  the  forwardest  youth 

That  makes  the  foremost  man: 
And  the  plan  that  seems  all  virtue  and  truth 

Is  not  always  heaven's  plan. 

Then  let  the  lowly  take  courage  from  this, 

And  let  the  exalted  take  care; 
Let  the  faint  look  up  and  their  fears  dismiss, 

Let  the  proud  look  round  and  beware. 


NOW  MORN  UPON  THE  ROSY  HILLS. 

Now  morn  upon  the  rosy  hills 

Is  looking  o'er  the  valley 
Unto  that  cot  and  pleasant  spot 

Where  dwells  my  blithesome  Sally. 

Her  lilies  are  the  first  to  wake 

And  catch  the  sunrise-glory, 
And  now  unfold  such  hearts  of  gold 

As  never  were  in  story. 


And   Other   Poems. 

Her  apple  wakes  her  cheery  tree, 
Her  cherry  wakes  the  clover, 

And  now  is  heard  the  note  of  bird 
And  earth  knows  night  is  over. 

To  be  alive  and  be  in  love 

In  such  a  morn  and  season 
Is  as  near  to  heaven  as  shall  be  given 

To  we  of  mortal  reason. 


OF  MANY  FOOLS,  I  LOATHE  THE  MOST. 

Of  many  fools,  I  loathe  the  most 

That  muddled,  puddled  oaf 
Who  holds  that  life's  realities 

Are  bed  and  drink  and  loaf. 

That  clod  who  has  no  place  for  dreams 

Among  the  list  of  needs, 
Who  holds  as  real  those  things  alone 

On  which  his  belly  feeds. 

To  whom  immortal  verse  is  naught, 

And  fine,  enlightened  taste; 
And  beauty  but  an  empty  mist, 

And  fancy's  field  a  waste. 


290  lone, 

To  whom  all  things  are  dreams  save  those 

That  he  can  eat  or  pawn, 
Naught  worthy  second  glance  or  thought 

Save  what  he  fattens  on. 

That   earthly  and   besotted   dolt 

Who  takes  his  narrow  stand, 
And  blots  from   life's   realities 

What  god-like  souls  demand. 

Like  one  in  total  blindness  born 

Who  bats  his  sightless  eye, 
And  values  far  above  yon  sun 

The  stick  he  hobbles  by. 

Souls  cannot  live  by  bread  alone — 

Hunger  has   deeper  springs; 
And  beauty  is  a  stubborn  fact 

And  dreams  substantial  things. 


KISS  ME,  DEAR,  AND  LET  'S  FORGET. 

Kiss  nie,  dear,  and  let  's  forget 
That  our  eyes  were  ever  wet; 
That  our  hearts  were  ever  sad 
With  a  world  that  9s  mostly  bad; 
That  our  dreams  come  seldom  true, 
And  are  nothing  when  they  do! 


And  Other   Poems.  291 

Kiss  me,  dear,  and  let  's  forget 
Memory  is  all  regret; 
All  our  days  are  empty  urns 
Where  the  ash  of  promise  burns: 
All  our  actions  end  in  thought, 
And  all  thinking  comes  to  naught! 

Kiss  me,  dear,  and  let  's  forget 
All  things  save  that  we  have  met; 
Save  the  skies  are  blue  above 
And  we  have  an  hour  for  love; 
Save  our  lips  may  meet  to-day 
Come  to-morrow  come  what  may! 


THE  DIVORCEE  DINNER:  THE  LATEST 
FAD. 

Have  you  heard  of  that  dinner,  that  wonderful 

dinner  ? 

(Yet  surely  you  have,  though  a  saint  or  a  sinner !) 
'T  was  given  of  late 
In  a  middle-west  State 
By  a  lady  in  society  of  perfect  propriety, 
Whose  fads  are  philanthropy,   church-work   and 
piety. 


292  lone, 

The  fair  hostess  herself  with  her  own  hand  indited 
The  prized  invitations.    The  mansion  was  lighted, 

The  banquet  was  spread, 

The  wine  glistened  red, 

The  guests  were  thrice  seven,  the  servants  eleven: 
The  hostess  was  Madam  Dean-Morgan-Hill-Nevin. 

A  three  times  divorcee,  new  wed  in  Dakota; 
(Divorced   in   Ohio,   New  York,  Minnesota!) 

The  guests  at  her  board 

Were  her  new-wedded  lord, 
Her  three  faithful  lawyers — Burke,  Wilson  and 

Sawyers — 
Who  won  her  divorces;  forensic  old  warriors. 

While  seated  between  were  the  honorable  judges 
Who  granted  her  freedom    (which  no  man  be- 
grudges!) 

And  gave  her  respite 
From  marital  delight, 

And  made  her  lords  pony  up  good  alimony. 
(Ah,   judges  have  hearts  though  their  office  is 
stony!) 

Still  further  along  at  the  banquet  were  seated 
Her  three  divorced  husbands ;  now  royally  feted : 

While  sleek  and  serene 

Eight  plain  to  be  seen 


And  Other   Poems.  293 

Were  the  four  reverend  pastors  (though  pious,  not 

f asters ! ) 
Who  wedded  their  hostess  to  marital  disasters. 

On   the   left,   with   their   morals   loose-fitting  as 

blouses, 

Were  the  three  divorced  wives  of  her  three  divorced 
spouses ; 

While  down  at  the  foot 
Of  the  table  were  put 
Two    sons    and    a    daughter   that   marriage    had 

brought  her: 
Too  youthful  to  sip  of  the  wine  without  water. 

And  last,  but  not  least — t'other  end  of  the  table — 
Was  seated  her  lover  (a  fact  and  no  fable!) 

The  man  she  would  wed 

Ere  the  old  year  was  dead 

And  divorce  in  the  summer  to  wed  a  new-comer — 
A  coachman  or  bishop,  a  lawyer  or  plumber. 

And  this  is  the  dinner,  the  dinner-divorcee, 
With   a  touch   aristocratic   and  a  touch   that  is 
horsey, 

Which  the  newspapers  print 

For  all  that  is  in  't; 

The  dinner  select  and  the  dinner  correct, 
The  dinner  which  every  good  wife  should  affect. 


294  lone, 


LINES. 

A  cat  lay  dying  in  the  gutter,  and 

A  little  child  was  staring  at  it  there: 
The  child  drew  nearer  and  with  stick  in  hand 

Poked  at  the  creature,  ruffling  its  dank  hair; 
Then,  drawing  nearer  still,  with  baby  feet 

Trod  on  the  moaning  beast,  and  laughed  to  hear 
The    thing    complaining,    like    a    toy    that 

squeaks 

When  pressed  in  the  middle.     A  butcher's  boy, 
with  meat 

And  basket,  loitering  on  his  way,  drew  near 

And  watched  the  baby  with  the  rosy  cheeks, 
Moist  yet  with  mother  kisses,  take  a  stick 

And    poke   the    creature's   eyes    out — one    was 

blind; 
Laughing  with  baby  glee.     Then  with  a  brick, 

The  largest  and  the  roughest  he  could  find 
After  some  moments'  search,  the  butcher's  boy 
Drove  at  the  creature,  shouting  as  with  joy: 
Then,  taking  up  the  brick,  hurled  it  again, 

And  once  again — the  cat  not  yet  quite  dead; 
Then,  whistling  shrilly,  went  upon  his  way — 
The  little  child  looked  after  him  and  then 

Plucked  off  his  bonnet  from  his  curly  head 
And  singing  to  himself  returned  to  play. 


And   Other   Poems.  295 

O  GHOST,  I  HAVE  THEE  NOW. 

0  say,  thou  foolish,  fond  and  bow-legged  ghost, 

Since  thou  hast  shuffled  off  the  "mortal  coil," 
Why  dost  thou  daily  haunt  this  distant  coast 

Called  Earth — this  scene  of  former  strife  and 

toil, 
And  fright  we  mortals  with  thy  spectral  shape, 

Thy  chuckling  laugh,  and  legs  that  seem  to 

yawn 
As  if  aweary?     'Ncath  thine  ancient  cape 

What  loves  contend  ?  What  passions  still  live  on  ? 

Oft  have  I  met  thee  in  our  cellar-room 

Hard  by  the  cider  keg.     With  pensive  brow 

Thou  seemed  but  a  deeper  shadow  in  the  gloom. 
And   She   was   there !     0,   ghost,   I   have  thee 
now — 

Thou  lovest  that  freckled  red-haired  lass  of  suds 

Who  weekly  washes  for  us,  and  then  scuds ! 


THE    PEN. 

You  may  talk  of  the  power  of  electricity, 
That  great  science  yet  in   its  great  youth; 

But  the  PEN"  is  the  lever  that  moves  this  old 

earth 
And  the  fulcrum  it  rests  on  is  truth. 


296  lone, 

And  good  steam  is  a  puissance  not  to  be  scorned, 
And  bright  fire  is  the  father  of  force; 

But  the  PEN  in  the  hand  of  a  scholar  or  bard 
Can  move  this  old  world  from  its  course. 

You  may  talk  of  the  power  of  powder  and  shell, 
And  of  rifle  and  mortar  and  gun; 

But  the  battles  achieved  by  the  might  of  the  PEN" 
Are  the  only  battles  that  are  won. 

For  who  conquer  by  powder,  by  steel,  or  by  fire 

Must  conquer  again  and  again, 
But  they  conquer  forever  who  conquer  but  once 

By  the  might  of  the  almighty  PEN. 


IF  GENIUS  WERE  BUT  CATCHING. 

If  genius  were  but  catching,  sweet, 

I'd  catch  the  poet's  malady, 
And  wake  some  splendid  burst  of  song 

And  dedicate  it  unto  thee. 

If  riches  were  contagious,  dear, 
I'd  take  the  rich  man  by  the  hand, 

Then  thou  couldst  dwell  in  crystal  halls 
And  be  a  lady  of  the  land. 


And   Other   Poems.  297 

If  glory  were  infectious,  love, 
I'd  go  where  glory  brightest  be, 

Then  millions  would  applaud  my  name, 
And  I — I'd  give  that  name  to  thee. 


A  LITTLE  PEOPLE. 

A  little  People  o'er  the  sea 

Have  known  themselves  a  year, 

Have  known  themselves  and  will  be  free 
To  shape  their  own  career. 

The  flower  of  liberty  has  sprung 

On  plain  and  hill  and  slope; 
The  dome  of  heaven  has  been  hung 

With  a  new  star  of  hope. 

The  iron  within  their  poets'  blood 
Has  met  war's  two-edged  flint: 

The  forehead  of  their  young  manhood 
Has  ta'en  a  new  imprint. 

They've  cast  their  lead  in  sterner  mold 

That  similitudes  of  kings: 
They've  found  that  commerce  for  their  gold 

From   which   a   Nation   springs. 


298  lone, 

They   battle   for   their   living   faith — 
What   land   has   fought   for   more? 

They  snatch  a  glory  from  stern  death, 
They  sink,   but  not  implore. 

They  bind  the  tyrant's  hands  abhor'd 

And  his  fierce  spirit  awe; 
They  go  forth  with  a  two-edged  sword, 

Returning  with  the  law ! 


TIRED ! 

I'm  tired,  tired,  tired, 
Too  tired  to  creep: 

I'm  tired,  dead  tired, 
Too  tired  to  sleep. 

I'm  tired,  tired,  tired, 
Tired  unto  death: 

Too  tired  almost 
To  draw  my  breath. 

I'm,  tired,  sick-tired, 
Tired  of  it  all: 

Too  tired  to  stand, 
Too  tired  to  crawl. 


And  Other  Poems.  299 

I'm  tired,  tired,  tired, 

Dead  tired;  fagged  out: 
Too  tired  to  know 

What  it  's  all  about. 

My  heart  is  tired, 

And  my  poor  head: 
And  I'm  too  tired 

To  creep  in  bed. 

I'm  tired,  tired,  tired, 

Too  tired  to  sigh; 
Too  tired  to  live, 

Too  tired  to  die. 

Tired,  tired,  dead  tired; 

Old,    tired,    and   gray: 
Too  tired  to  rest, 

Too  tired  to  pray! 


0  SHE  IS  A  POEM! 

0  she  is  a  poem  that  angels  have  pen'd, 
A  poem  of  love  without  surfeit  or  end; 
A  poem  forever  delightful  and  new, 
Eternal,  supernal,  and  rounded  and  true! 


300  lone, 

0  she  is  a  verse  from  the  song  of  the  spheres, 
A  rhyme  from  the  joy  of  the  ultimate  years; 
A  madrigal  sung  in  bright  paradise, 
A  pulse  of  the  paeans  that  balance  the  skies ! 

0  she  is  a  song  and  awakeneth  song; 
A  lyric  that  echoing  poets  prolong: 
In  music's  anthology  sweetest  of  all, 
Awaking  and  taking  each  heart  in  her  thrall! 

0  maid  with  the  large  and  luminous  eyes, 
You  answer  the  Sphinx's  immemorial  whys, 
You  answer  the  riddle  of  life  with  your  smile — 
And,  lo,  I  have  come  to  your  palm-fronded  isle! 


ADELINE. 

The  miracle  01  flowers  is  undone, 

The  bobolink  hath  sought  a  brighter  clime, 
Dim  clouds  are  driven  o'er  the  darkened  sun 
And  gusty  winds  bring  in  the  winter  time : 
Big  drops  of  rain  are  falling  in  the  land 
Drowning  the  meadows,  where  no  fold  is  seen; 

Leafless  and  cold  against  the  barren  moor 
A  single  ash  hath  ta'en  its  blasted  stand: 
Hath  faded  from  the  lake  a  day  serene, 

A  glory  gone  from  heaven,  a  light  passed 
from  the  shore ! 


And  Other   Poems.  301 

Beneath  yon  yew  tree's  shade,  where  no  birds  sing, 

In  linen  scarf  and  faded  mantle  wound, 
My  Love  hath  slept  since  autumn's  golden  spring, 
The  earth  high-piled  above  her  dreamless  swound ; 
My  Adeline  hath  slept  a  dreamless  sleep 

Nor  knows  the  golden  rod  hath  come  and  gone, 

Nor  knows  the  orchis  lingered  for  her  sake, 
To  perish  only  on  the  winter's  steep; 
My  Adeline  hath  slept  in  death  alone, 

The  bride  hath  slept  the  sleep  the  bridegroom 
cannot  break! 

Above  her  head  the  morning  rose  shall  blow, 
The  stately  asphodel  shall  spring  and  wave, 
The  flower  of  winter  star  the  sheeted  snow 
Tender  and  passionless  upon  her  grave; 
But  in  their  beauty  she  shall  not  delight 
Nor  turn  aside  to  gather  them  at  morn; 

She  sleepeth  now  beneath  the  drooping  yew 
And  hath  no  smiles  sweet  buds  make  doubly  bright^ 
No  youth  the  stately  lily  may  adorn, 

No  golden  hair  to  bind  with  roses  wet  with 
dew. 

She  came  with  summer  like  this  morning  rose 
I  plucked  upon  my  casement,  sweet  and  lone; 

She  passed  with  summer,  at  one  twilight's  close, 
Like  petals  that  around  my  feet  are  strown. 


302  lone, 

Her  death  was  as  a  golden  fountain  stopt 
Upon  a  sudden  in  a  morn  of  May 

When  birds  sing  sweetest  'round  its  crystal 

well, 

Or  as  a  fragrant  rose  whose  stem  is  lopt 
Holding  an  hour  of  bloom  e'en  in  decay, 
The  dew  upon  its  leaves  but  death  within  each 
cell. 

While  summer  still  was  in  the  dream  and  gold, 

And  winged  odors  stirred  the  citron  glen 
My  Love  drew  nearer,  while  I  softly  told 

A  story  older  than  the  poet's  pen, 
The  story  primal  of  the  primal  pair, 
Forever  new  and  oh  forever  dear! 

When  lo !  we  heard  a  spirit  footstep  fall, 
A  fearful  summons  from  the  viewless  air, 
And  Azrael  rose  in  the  twilight  clear 

And  led  my  Love  away  toward  Death's  cham- 
ber hall ! 


A  NEW  PLEASURE. 

""0  for  a  new  pleasure,"  the  weary  king  sighed, 

"A  pleasure  untasted  before!" 
And  he  turned  from  the  revelers  reveling  wide 

And  passed  through  the  golden-hung  door. 


And  Other   Poems.  303 

"0  for  a  new  pleasure;  a  novel  delight; 

A  joy  and  a  gladness  unstaled ! 
Whoso  shall  discover  it  him  I  will  knight, 

For  the   pleasures   of   life  have   all   failed." 

The  master  of  revels  was  there  at  the  feast, 

And  heard  the  desire  of  his  lord. 
A  greater  magician  ne'er  came  out  the  East, 

And  he  thought  of  that  master's  award. 

Up  rose  the  magician  and  followed  the  king, 

On  hastened  the  king  to  the  sea, 
Where  he  envied  the  curlew  his  swift-flying  wing 

And  sighed  for  the  fisherboy's  glee. 

And  envying  and  sighing  sate  down  on  the  shore 
And  looked  on  the  bird  and  the  boy, 

And,  looking,  he  marvelled  the  more  and  the  more 
Whence  came  their  pure  spirit  of  joy. 

Then  a  voice  at  his  side  and  a  presence  recalled 
The   wandering   thoughts   of  the  king, 

And    spoke    the    magician — "Since    pleasure   has 

palled, 
And  shattered  is  joy's  sweetest  string, 

"Learn  you  of  the  curlew  who  wingeth  the  shore, 

And  learn  of  yon  fisherman's  boy 
This  truth  that  has  power  to  make  the  world  o'er — 

A  new  heart  is  the  only  new  joy. 


304  lone, 

"You  who  seek  a  new  pleasure,  go  find  a  new  heart 
That  labors  in  meekness  and  love, 

Then  pleasures  as  many  and  perfect  will  start 
As  stars  from  the  heavens  above!" 


OUT  OF  MY  BRAIN"  THE  MUSIC  HAS  FLED. 

Out  of  my  brain  the  music  has  fled 

And  out  of  my  life  the  dream; 
The  poet  in  me  is  cold  and  dead, 

And  beauty  no  longer  supreme. 

Gone  is  the  heart  that  leapt  up  in  me 

At  the  magical  name  of  song; 
Gone  is  the  charm  of  melody, 

Ay,  gone  these  seasons  long. 

Like  a  spirit  I  moved  in  a  spirit  land 
And  nothing  was  common  to  me — 

The  sound  of  a  voice  or  touch  of  a  hand 
Could  shake   me  with  ecstasy. 

But  the  wonder  has  passed  like  a  dream  of  night, 

0  never  to  come  again, 
And  the  world  grows  stale,  and  common,  and  trite, 

And  I  the  dullest  of  men. 


And  Other   Poems.  305 

The  fame  of  a  poet  was  nothing  to  me 

But  to  feel  as  a  poet  was  all; 
I  asked  not  the  guerdon  of  melody 

But  to  live  in  the  poet's  high  thrall. 


THERE  ARE  MORE  WAYS  OF  PLEASING 
GOD  THAN  ONE ! 

There  are  more  ways  of  pleasing  God  than  one ! 

More  ways  than  building  up  His  church  for 
Him, 

And  kneeling  there   beneath   stained   windows 

dim 

And  praying  to  the  Father  through  the  Son. 
The  world  is  His,  and  all  that  's  kindly  done, 

Or  nobly  undertaken,  is  to  Him 

As  dear  as  labor  of  those  hands  that  trim 
His  altar  candles  at  the  set  of  sun. 

He  loves  the  merchant  not  less  than  the  priest, 
He  loves  the  maiden  dearly  as  the  nun; 

Blesses  alike  the  home  and  church's  feast, 
And  hath  indeed  in  love  no  favorite  one; 

Oft  prospering  most  what  serves  His  church  the 

least, 
For  all  that  's  kindly  done  is  godly  done. 


306  lone, 


YOUR   BEAUTY    LEFT    ME    MARVELING. 

Your  beauty  left  me  marveling, 

Your  coldness  left  me  grieved: 
That  one  so  fair  could  be  so  distant 

I  would  not  have  believed. 

Perhaps  they  warned  you  I  am  poor, 

The  poorest  of  brave  men; 
But  Fortune's  wheel  has  turned  before 

And  it  may  turn  again! 

True  love  like  mine  has  lifted  some 

Unto  a  kingly  throne, 
And  the  doors  to-night  they  turn  me  from 

To-morrow  may  be  my  own! 


CLARA  O'DEE. 

One  rose  in  your  hair 
Makes  summer  for  me, 

0  rare,  sweet  Clare, 
0  Clara  O'Dee! 


And  Other   Poems.  307 

One  smile  from  your  lips 

Brings  back  the  lost  June 
With  the  tuberose  scent 

And  the  oriole's  tune! 


I  pass  the  wine  cup 

And  touch  but  your  glove, 
And  my  soul  is  caught  up 

In  the  white  arms  of  Love! 

Ah!  the  paths  that  lead 

To  paradise  sweet, 
Fd  leave  for  the  lane 

That  runs  to  your  feet ! 


MY  SWEET  THOUGHTS  ARE  MY 
DAUGHTERS. 

My  sweet  thoughts  are  my  daughters, 
My  brave  thoughts  are  my  sons: 

Such  are  the  poet's  children 
And  oft  his  only  ones. 

I  love  them  for  their  mother, 
Their  mother  who  is  Song: 

She  's  all  the  bride  I've  taken 
And  ah,  I've  loved  her  long. 


308  lone, 

Her  hair  is  more  than  golden, 
And  never  shall  be  gray: 

She  came  to  me  in   beauty 
And  shall  be  young  alway. 


We  dwell  within  a  palace, 

A  palace  of  high  faith, 
Where  sweet  pipes  play   forever, 

And  charms  the  passion  wraith. 


Yet  sometimes   I   am  haunted 
By  a  mortal  maiden's  face, 

A   countenance   all   beauty 
A  look  all  youth  and  grace. 


And  though  to  Song  I'm  wedded 
And  love  her  very  much, 

I  hunger  for  the  human, 
I  crave  the  human  touch. 


I  feel  the  icy  coldness 
Of  her,  my  spirit  bride, 

And  long  to  clasp  the  maiden 
That  laugheth  at  my  side. 


And  Other   Poems.  309 


TO    TKADE. 

To  trade:  for  a  little  baby's  smile 
And  the  touch  of  a  baby's  hand, 

A  lady's  diamond  pointed  pen 
And  stock  with  golden  band. 

To  trade:  a  silver  inkwell,  chased, 

And  a  gold-bound  blotting-pad, 
For  the  uncertain  sound  of  two  little  feet 

In  softest  moccasins  clad. 

To  trade:  a  lady's  writing  desk 

And   paper — seven    reams, 
For  the  joy  that  comes  to  a  mother 

When  her  babe  first  smiles  in  its  dreams. 

To   trade:   a   dictionary  of   rhymes 

And   Roget's   Thesaurus, 
For  a  baby's  mouth  at  my  breast 

And  a  love  idolatrous. 

To  trade:  the  thousand  thoughts  and  fancies 

That  haunt  a  poetess'  brain, 
For  the  one  pure  thought  of  a  mother 

For  her  little  babe  in  pain. 


310  lone, 

To  trade:  a  name  in  the  magazines, 
And  a  name  in  a  book  or  two, 

For  my  face  caught  up  and  reflected 
In  a  baby's  eyes  of  blue. 


THE  ROSE  THAT  BLOOMED  IN  EDEN 
BLOOMS  TO-DAY. 

The  rose  that  bloomed  in  Eden  blooms  to-day, 
The  nightingale  that  shut  the  primal  eyes 
To  slumber  and  to  dreams  in  Paradise 

Still  sings  at  even  mid  the  bloomy  spray: 

The  sun  shines  down  with  as  elysian  ray 
As  ever  in  that  golden  time ;  the  skies 
Are  not  less  purple;  and  yon  heaven  lies 

No  jot  or  league  more  distantly  away. 

It  is  our  heart  and  not  the  world  that  ?s  changed, 
It  is  the  heart — the  world  is  Eden  still: 

It   is   the    spirit   from    its    God   estranged, 
No  change  of  wood  or  brook,  or  vale  or  hill. 

Still  are  we  living  in  bright  Paradise, 

Still,  still  in  Eden  'neath  edenic  skies. 


And   Other   Poems.  311 

GONE,    ONE    MOKE    FAITHFUL    FRIEND. 

Our  old  clock  died  this  morning, 

Our   beautiful   old   friend: 
Death  came  without  a  warning 

And  no  one  saw  the  end. 

We  woke — to  miss  his  greeting; 

We   looked — to   find    him    dead; 
His  heart  no  longer  beating, 

Death's  angel  at  his  head. 

At  first  we  thought  him  sleeping 
With  tired  hands  folded  o'er, 

But  ah!  his  heart  was  keeping 
The   sleep   that   wakes  no   more. 

He  took  the  silent  hours 

And  rung  them  like  sweet  chimes, 
And  come  sunshine  or  showers, 

His  ways   were  true  all-times. 

When  our  little  son  lay  dying 

And  we  thought  o'  the  cold,  cold  sod, 

His  faithful  hands  were  trying 
To  point  right  up  to  God. 

Gone — one  my  verse  shall  hallow; 

Gone — one  more  faithful  friend: 
Gone — and  when  I  shall  follow 

As  peaceful  be  my  end. 


312  lone, 


SHE    HAS    HER    FAULTS    LIKE    OTHER 
MAIDS. 

She  has  her  faults  like  other  maids, 

Her  foibles  and  her  failings; 
Her  beauty  has  its  little  aids, 

Her   temper  has   its  ailings. 

She  is  not  perfect,  as  I  grant, 
And,   as   I   guess,   quite  mortal; 

And  neither   learned  nor   ignorant 
To  that  extent  to  startle. 

Not  always  wrong,  not  always  right; 

A  loved  and   loving  human 
Whom  poets  call  an  angel  bright, 

Philosophy,  a  woman. 

Somewhere  may  be  another  maid 
That  artist  might  call  fairer, 

Whose  hair  is  of  a  brighter  shade, 
Whose  eyes  and  lips  are  rarer. 

But  nowhere  is  another  lass 

Whose  love  is  all  her  dowry, 
Can  bring  my  heart  to  such  a  pass 

As  lovely  Laura  Lourie. 


And   Other   Poems.  313 


IGNORANCE. 

There's  bigger  game  than  bison, 
Than  moose,  or  wolf,  or  bear, 

And  though  not  seen  by  vision 
'T  is  met  with  everywhere. 

'T  is  fiercer  than  the  tiger, 

Or  than  the  crocodile, 
Than  beasts  that  stalk  the  Niger, 

Or  shapes  that  haunt  the  Nile. 

It  preys  upon  no  dumb  thing, 
Nor  hind,  nor  hart,  nor  foal; 

It  is  a  fearful  Something 

That   stalks   the  human   soul. 

The  scholar  and  the  teacher, 
The  scientist  and  the  bard, 

They  hunt  this  hellish  creature 
And  hunt  him  fast  and  hard. 

They  drive  him  far  and  farther 
From   human   residence, 

For  lo!  he  is  no  other 
Than  bestial   Ignorance. 


3X4  lone, 

And  greater  than  great  Nimrod 
That  hunter-king  of  old, 

Or  those  that  after  him  trod 
In  emulation  bold, 

Is  he,  that  dauntless  spirit 

Who  hunts  this  brutish  thing- 
May  he  such  fame  inherit 
As  only  brave  deeds  bring. 


MY    LIFE    WAS    A    ROUND    OF    GOLDEN 
DAYS. 

My  life  was  a  round  of  golden  days 
When  thou  wast  near  me,  Lucy; 

But  now  I  walk  i  i  darkened  ways 
With   naught   to   cheer   me,   Lucy. 

My  laugh  is  not  the  laugh  of  youth; 

Its  sound  doth  pain  me,  Lucy: 
For  distance  is  a  serpent's  tooth 

And  it  hath  slain  me,  Lucy. 

My  heart  was  a  nest  of  singing  birds 
When  I  first  kissed  thee,  Lucy ; 

But  now — alas!  I  have  no  words 
To  tell  how  I've  missed  thee,  Lucy. 


And  Other   Poems.  315 

My  dreams  are  not  the  dreams  that  were 
When  thou  wast  near  me,  Lucy; 

Dark  shapes  about  me  move  and  stir, 
And  shadows  jeer  me,  Lucy. 

My  days  were  sweet  as  summer  flowers 

That   strew   the  heather,   Lucy; 
In  those  old  times,  those  happy  hours 

When  we  dwelt  together,  Lucy. 

But  now  I  scarce  dare  think  of  then: 

And  the  thought  should  start  us,  Lucy, 

That  ere  our  lips  shall  meet  again 
Death's  hand  may  part  us,  Lucy! 


GONE  IS  A  STRENUOUS  SPIRIT. 

Out  of  the  shadow  of  nature 

Unto  the  glory  of  death, 
Gone   is   a   strenuous   spirit, 

Resigning  a  worker's  breath 

Not  as  a  reaper  but  sower 

Into  the  body  he  came — 
Harvests  there  were  to  be  planted 

To  reap  ere  he  sowed  was  shame. 


316  lone, 

Loved  less  the  harvest  than   furrow, 
Loved  less  the  rose  than  the  seed; 

His  was  the  hand  of  a  planter — 
Let  others  still  reap  the  meed. 


Knew  that  our  doings  abideth — 
States  cannot  live  by  a  name; 

Gave  all  his  days  to  great  action 
And  not  one  brief  hour  to  fame. 


Never,  in  fear  of  an  error, 
Did  he  step  over  the  truth — 

Heard  the  full  summons  of  spirit 

And  wrought  with  the  faith  of  youth. 


Held  that  chief  truth  of  our  finding — 
That  the  wide  world  is  as  deep 

As  we  shall  judge  it  in  spirit, 
And  as  we  so  judge  we  reap. 


Left  his  pure  footsteps  to  guide  us 
In  the  high   places   of  truth; 

Left  his  great  faith  to  the  weary 
And  unto  the  old  his  youth. 


And   Other   Poems.  317 

WHAT   THOUGH   THE   GARDEN   OF   THE 
MUSES  YIELD? 

What  though  the  garden  of  the  Muses  yield 
But  one  sweet  flower  to  my  hand  each  day  ? 

Contented,  come  I  from  the  bloomy  field 
And  at  thy  feet  that  single  flower  lay. 

Kich  in  the  treasure  of  that  only  bloom, 
But  richer  in  the  thought  that  't  is  for  thee; 

For  not,  indeed,  the  flower  but  for  whom 
The  flower  is  gathered  most  enriches  me. 

Then  take  this  single  blossom  of  my  rhyme, 
This  everlasting  of  a  poet's  mind, 

And  make  it  doubly  precious  for  all  time, 

Thrice  precious  by  acceptance  more  than  kind. 

Take  these,  the  single  flowers  of  my  song, 
And  day  to  day  my  toil  shall  add  to  them 

Until  they  grow  to  be — 't  will  not  be  long— 
A  wreath,  a  garland  and  a  diadem. 

A  chaplet  sweet  to  crown  thee  queen  of  love, 
Thou  lovely  spirit  with  thy  human  mouth, 

Thou  blue-eyed  maiden  precious  far  above 
All  sister-spirits  of  thy  shining  south. 


318  lone, 


0    POET,    OPEN    WIDE    THE    GATE    OF 
DREAMS. 

0   Poet,   open   wide   the  gate   of  dreams 
And  let  our  care-worn  spirits  in  to  rest; 

Throw  wide  the  hinges  of  the  gates  of  Song 
And  none  so  poor  but  will  be  Beauty's  guest. 

Our  hearts  are  cankered  with  the  canker  gold, 
The  World  beats  on  us  like  a  tropic  sun; 

Almost  we  have  forgotten  Beauty's  name, 
So  fierce  we  slave,  so  fast  the  race  is  run. 

Throw  wide  the  everlasting  gates  of  Song, 

(So    heaven's    gates    by    seraphs    are    thrown 
wide!) 

And  like  young  angeis  we  shall  enter  in 

And  with  great  truths,  as  with  the  gods,  abide. 

0  flush  our  hearts  with  the  Pierian  spring, 
0  bathe  us  in  the  bright  Aonian  flood; 

0  reach  from  out  the  dream  and  draw  us  back 
That  music  heal  this  fever  in  our  blood. 

0  Builder  of  the  Dream  that  is  no  dream 
0  Worker  in  the  spirit  stuff  of  thought, 

0»Poet,  open  wide  the  gates  of  Song — 
We    flee    from    Mammon,    and    would    not   be 
caught ! 


And   Other   Poems.  319 

0  give  us  shelter  from  the  world's  alarms; 

Show  us  again  in  heaven  Beauty's  bow; 
Lead  us  into  the  silences  of  God, 

And  crown  us  with  a  faith  lost  long  ago. 


PHOEBE. 

Thou  pleasant  land  of  brooks  and   leaf-fringed 

streams, 

Thou  Arcady  of  citron  and  of  vine, 
Untroubled    vale,    where    aye    bright    Summer 

dreams 

Lulled  in  the  coil  of  dewy  eglantine, 
What  conscious  spirit,  by  winged  airs  entranced, 
Her    breast    soft-heaving    with    its    burdened 

musk, 
Enamoured    sleeps    midst    yonder    depth    of 

thorn 

Where  never  mortal  nor  yet  spirit  chanced, 
Saving  perhaps  with   golden  rain  or  dusk 
Some  faery  hasting  by  with  silent  horn? 

She  sleeps  a  spirit's  sleep  on  rose-bloom  prest, 
Her  hair  half-loosened  from  a  fragrant  wreath ; 

One  white,  soft-tapering  hand  upon  her  breast, 
The  other  hid  her  crooked  curls  beneath. 


320  lone, 

Upon  her  body  is  a  splendid  light, 

A  glory  like  around  the  summer  moon 

That  sleeps  upon  the  lakes  of  Thessaly; 
Her  watchers  are  the  golden  stars  of  night, 
And,  hanging  with  the  lily  o'er  her  swoon, 
The  nightingale  pours  forth  its  melody. 

She  sleeps  a  spirit's  sleep,  rose-bloom  above, 

O'erwoofed  with  oxlip  and  musk  roses  dear, 
And  dreams  a  spirit's  dream,  soft  breathing  love 

Which  only  the  rapt  nightingale  may  hear. 
Immortal  bird  !    Sweet-throated   interpreter ! 

Thy  music  is  the  cadence  of  her  dream, 

A  dream  prophetic  of  the  golden  morn — 
Bright  vision  that  the  hours  will  not  blur 

Into  forgetfulness,  nor  orient  beam 

Dissolve  away  and  leave  her  all  forlorn! 

She  dreams  of  him  long-seeking  her  through  pain, 

Only  to  meet  in  dreams  of  summer  night, 
Meet  and  embrace,  embrace  and  part  again 

Like  guilty  things  in  the  hierarchy's  sight. 
Of  young  Endymion  she  dreams — of  him! 

For  she  is  Phoebe,  his  immortal  love ! 

'T  is  evening ;  they  have  met  in  Thessaly, 
And  in  her  dream  she  plucks  the  lily  dim 

That  hangs  her  shut  and  sleeping  eyes  above 
And  lays  it  on  her  breast  where  he  will  see. 


And  Other   Poems.  321 

Love's   dreams   are   sweet,   but   sweeter   is   love's 

waking. 

Aye  clasped  in  embrace  to  the  other's  heart! 
0  then  awake — thy  waking  hath  no  sting ! 

Awake,  bright  Spirit — nor  thy  dreams  depart! 
Not  o'er  the  threshold  of  thy  dreams  alone 
Endymion  comes,  but  o'er  the  threshold  too 
Of    thy    lush    bower    thatched    with    tender 

shoot ; 

Not  only  in  thy  dreams  the  Fates  atone 
But  in  thy  waking  also! — O'er  the  dew 
Endymion  comes,  and  Philomel  is  mute! 


AN  EVIL  BOOK. 

There  is  no  evil  like  an  evil  book, 

And  no  infection  half  so  quickly  spread, 
Since  such  has  power  to  strike  the  conscience 
dead 

And  rot  the  spirit,  ere  the  flesh  is  shook. 

Such  evil  tomes  are  each  a  golden  hook 

That,  shining,  snares  and,  snaring,  lets  not  go 
Until  the  devil  has  the  soul  in  tow, 

Jerked  like  a  grayling  from  its  native  brook! 


u 


or  THE 
{  UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Va 


322  lone, 

In  writing  then  write  holily  or  quit; 

And  every  page  for  honor's  sake  left  blank 
Will  shine  in  heaven  with  a  splendid  wit, 

And  angels  and  not  men  shall  give  you  rank; 
But  whensoever  an  evil  line  is  writ 

Hell  has  another  scribbling  fool  to  thank! 


LAKE  TAHOE. 

Beauty  walks  by  Lake  Tahoe — 
Her  path  is  through  the  pine; 

And   Grandeur  from   eternal  snow 
Aye  looketh  down  divine. 

Here  Solitude  and  Silence  meet 

In  their  unbroken  love; 
And  day  completes  the  earth  beneath 

And  night  the  skies  above. 

Tall  golden  splendors  bloom  and  shake 

Where  limpid  waters  lie, 
And  heaven's  face  glows  in  the  lake 

As  in  a  conscious  eye. 

While  from  the  hanging  walls  above 
The  stately  pine  looks  down, 

Aye  carpeting  the  dewy  earth 
With  needles  smooth  and  brown. 


And  Other  Poems.  323 


A  PRELUDE. 

I  sing  of  Romance  and  the  South, 

Of   meads   that  lovers'   feet  have  prest; 
A  river  flowing  to  the  west 

With  sunset  islands  at  its  mouth. 

I  sing  of  beauty  and  of  light, 

Of  truth  and  honor  not  in  vain — 
The  love  that  lifts  me  shall  sustain, 

The  grace  that  wins  me  shall  invite. 

Of  love  amid  a  pleasant  seat, 

And  of  that  pleasant  seat  I  sing; 
Though  nothing  new  to  song  I  bring 

Save  this  new  heart  with  love  complete. 

The  golden  Springtime  needs  be  here 
Ere  I've  attained  my  middle  flight: 
0  may  the  Spring's  propitious  light 

Be  ripened  with  my  full  career, 

That  from  my  labors  I  arise 

And  with  the  Springtime  bid  adieu, 
To  feel  that  I  have  flowered  too, 

And  left  a  sweetness  in  the  skies. 


324  lone, 


WHEN  I  CONSIDER. 

When  I  consider  how  the  smallest  thing 
Can  make  or  mar  our  human  life  divine: 
How  nothing  is  so  trifling,   frail,  or  fine, 
But  has  the  power,  like  a  tyrant  king, 
To  lift  our  feet  to  honor,  or  to  bring 
Our  life  to  nothing  and  to  hell  consign 
Our  fondest  hopes — how  trifles  still  combine — 
Mere  trifles — to  overmaster  every  spring 
Of  human  action !   When  I  think  of  this, 

And  look  about  and  stern  example  see 
On  heaven's  summit  or  in  hell's  abyss 

Of  the  power  of  trifles,  then  to  Destiny, 
To  fixed  Fate  I  turn,  and  hold  as  flaw 
Free  Will  which  leaves  our  fate  to  hang  upon  a 
straw. 


WAR! 

War!   War!  War! 
Bring  forth  the  iron  car, 
The  cimeter  and  blade, 
The  cannon  and  grenade, 
Mortar,  rifle,  sword  and  dirk, 
Christian  armament,  or  Turk; 


And   Other   Poems.  325 

Powder,  shot  and  shell, 
Shrapnel  as  well: 
Bring  forth  the  bayonet 
And  let  the  blade  be  set; 
Cartridge,  bomb,  and  ball, 
Ordnance  great  and  small, 
Then  light  the  brand  that  lies  at  hand 
And  with  War's  bloody  carnage  sweep  the  troubled 
land! 

War!  War!  War! 

War  and  blood!  blood  and  war! 

War  anear  and  war  afar! 

Death  in  every  form  and  shape, 

Eack  and  ruin,  murder,  rape ! 

Days  of  sorrow, 

Nights  of  horror, 

Bloody  fields  with  corpses  strewn 

Smoking  'neath  the  torrid  noon 

Glist'ning  ghastly  in  the  pale  light  of  the  moon ! 

War!   War!   War! 

Foreign  war !  internal  war ! 

War  at  home  and  war  abroad, 

War  for  lucre,  war  for  fraud! 

Ambition's  war, 

Sedition's  war, 

War  in  the  name  of  Almighty  God ! 


326  lone, 

War  and  carnage,  war  and  massacre, 
War,   the  bloody-handed  murderer, 
War  for  every  day  on  the  calendar! 
War!  War!  Christian  war! 


War!  War!  War! 

Headlong,   raging  war, 

Red-handed,  rav'ning  war, 

Shuddering,  revolting  war, 

Horrid  wounds  and  ghastly  accidents; 

Brutish  force  and  devilish  intents! 

Spitted  babes  and  gutted  sires, 

Matrons  roasted  in  circumfluent  fires! 

War  and  conflagration, 

War  and  desolation! 

War  on  land  and  war  on  sea, 

War  where'er  two  brothers  be — 

War!  War!  Christian  war! 


WILL-HE  NILL-HE. 

I've  cast  my  heart  beneath  her  feet, 
I've  cast  my  fortune  after: 

No  other  lass  has  lips  so  sweet, 
No  other  lass  such  laughter. 


And  Other  Poems.  327 

Her  eyes  are  heaven's  baby  stars, 

Her  lips  are  love's  fresh  fountains; 

For  her  I'd  tilt  a  lance  on  Mars 
Or  scale  the  moon's  cold  mountains. 

I  grant  my  love  may  foolish  seem, 

My   actions   well   nigh   silly; 
But  my  poor  heart  has  found  his  dream 

And  loves  her,  will  he  nill  he. 


IF! 

If  love  were  but  a  home,  dear, 

And   kisses   wine   and   cake, 
Then  we  would  never  roam,  dear, 

Nor  fear  sharp  hunger's  ache. 

If  simple  faith  were  gold,  dear, 

And  true  hearts  silver  were, 
Then  we  would  laugh  at  cold,  dear, 

And  dress  in  silks  and  fur. 

If  father  love  were  a  tree,  dear, 

And  mother  love  a  toy, 
Then  Christmas  would  bring  glee,  dear, 

Unto  our  little  boy. 


328  lone, 

But  love  is  only  love,  dear, 

And  kisses  but  love's  way; 
And  though  we've  a  home  above,  dear, 

We  're  shelterless  to-day. 

And  simple  faith  is  much,  dear, 
And  faithful  hearts  are  more, 

But  they  are  graces  such,  dear, 
As  cannot  clothe  the  poor. 

And  father  love  will  cleave,  dear, 

And  mother  love  be  true, 
But  oh  this  Christmas  eve,  dear, 

To  fill  Tim's  little  shoe! 


THE  SOXG  THAT  LIVES  FOR  AYE. 

'T  is  not  the  polished  phrase  that  makes 

The  song  that  lives  for  aye; 
Nor  perfect  rhymes  a  poem  are, 

NOT  measured  beat  a  lay. 

Though  every  rune  should  have  its  rhythm 

And    formal,    studied   scheme, 
Each  rounded,  living  poem  must  have 

Its   consecrated   dream. 


And   Other   Poems.  329 

The  stately  lines  of  poetry 

Are  broad,  bright  avenues 
Down  whose  far  vistas,  like  a  god, 

The  poet's  spirit  moves. 

And  though  these  stately  lines  be  set 

With  all  the  gems  of  art, 
Unless  the  spirit  moveth  there 

They  have  of  life  no  part. 


I  LOVE  MY  COUNTRY  NOT  THE  LESS, 
DEAR  FRIENDS. 

I  love  my  country  not  the  less,  dear  friends, 
But  ah!  I  love  humanity  the  more: 

I  would  not  see  my  country  gain  her  ends 
By  means  which  leave  the  other  nations  poor. 

"My  country,  right  or  wrong/'  is  not  my  creed: 
Where  honor  ends  there  ends  my  country  too: 

Truth's  cause  is  dearer  than  my  country's  need, 
Love's  banner  higher  than  the  Red-white-blue. 

Too  much  I  love  my  country  and  her  call 

To  fight  her  battles  when  she  lists  with  hell: 

And  he  who  to  his  soul  is  false  at  all 
Is  false  unto  his   fatherland   as   well. 


33°  lone, 

Thrice  dear  my  country  or  in  peace  or  war; 

Thrice   dear   yon    starry   banner   waving   o'er, 
But  let  this  truth  be  blazoned  on  each  bar — 

I  owe  my  country  much,  but  owe  God  more ! 


I  THINK:   I  KNOW. 

I  think  the  hills  were  made  for  her, 
And  half  the  vales  between : 

I  know  the  trees  cast  shade  for  her, 
And  all  the  land  is  green. 

I  think  the  rose  is  red  for  her, 
New  washed  in  morning  dew: 

I  know  the  fields  are  spread  for  her 
With  buds  of  lovely  hue. 

I  think  that  song  was  born  for  her, 

The  hills  of  joy  among: 
I  know  that  naught  has  scorn  for  her, 

Or  heart,  or  eye,  or  tongue. 

I  think  the  heavens  glow  for  her, 

And  set  their  golden  bow; 
I  know  the  rivers  flow  for  her, 

And  sparkle  as  they  flow. 


And  Other  Poems.  331 

Ah,  yes!  the  blossoms  burst  for  her 

On  hedge  and  vine  and  tree; 
And  every  joy  was  first  for  her 

And  then,  oh  then  for  me. 

I  think  the  stars  look  down  for  her 

And  shed  their  golden  light; 
And  summer  wears  a  crown  for  her, 

And  winter  takes  its  flight. 

I  know  the  days  are  long  for  her, 

The  skies  are  blue  above; 
The  birds  were  given  song  for  her, 

And  youth  was  given  love. 

I  think  the  sun  doth  shine  for  her, 

For  her  sweet  sake  alone; 
And  life  was  made  divine  for  her, 

My  Marian!  my  own! 


0  SING  ME  A  SONG  OF  MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

0  sing  me  a  song  of  my  native  land, 
In  the  dear  old  American  tongue; 

0  sing  me  a  song  of  Columbia, 
The  sweetest  song  ever  sung. 


332  lone, 

0  sing  me  a  song  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 

0  sing  me  a  song  of  the  West, 

And  take  me  back  in  my  dreams  again 
To  the  land  I  love  the  best. 

0   for  an  hour  of  the  life   I   lived 

In   God's   own   beautiful   land; 
The  home  of  the  true,  the  home  of  the  brave, 

Where   Freedom  forever  shall   stand! 

Ten  thousand  miles  from  America, 
Ten  thousand  miles  from  home ! 
And  were  I  back  in  my  own  country 

1  never  more  would  roam. 


THE .LOVIXG  COUPLE. 

Look   here  upon*  this   husband, 
And  here  upon  this  wife, 

Where  they,  in  rhyme  and  reason, 
Are  painted  to  the  life. 

He  married  for  that  jewel — 

Respectability, 
(Sure  marriage  is  a  blessing — 

And  the  height  of  policy!) 


And   Other  Poems.  333 

And  happily  he  got  it, 

As  any  friend  can  tell, 
For  marriage  with  the  lady 

Made   her  respectable. 

In  winning  her  in  marriage 

He  lost  his  only  friend, 
For  soon  as  she  was  wedded 

Her  friendship  reached  its  end. 

In  wedding  with  her  husband 

She  found  a  lover  dear; 
But  't  was  not  in  her  husband 

Let  it  be  stated  here. 

He  acts  a  shameful  evil, 

And  she — she  points  it  out: 
He  has,  indeed,  no  honor, 

And  this  she  does  not  doubt. 

He  is  not  wholly  happy 

Until  he  plays  the  fool, 
Nor  she  is  e'er  contented 

Until  at  scandal's  school. 

He  swears  she  's  vain  and  foolish, 
Tricked  out  in  silk  for  show; 

She  swears — before  her  children — 
Her  husband  made  her  so. 


334  lone, 

There  're  two  sides  to  each  question, 
And  why  ? — 't  is  plain  as  life — 

One  side  is  for  the  husband, 
The  other  for  the  wife. 

Were  he  to  swear  the  noonday 

Was  luminous  or  bright, 
She'd  have  the  heavens  darkened 

To  prove  he  was  not  right. 

To  prove  her  wrong  in  judgment 
He'd  prove  himself  a  fool; 

Eat  fire  for  disagreement 
And  swear  that  it  was  cool. 

Yet  both,  indeed,  are  happy 

As  ever  day  was  long — 
And  each  can  prove  the  other 

Has  lately  been  in  the  wrong. 

And,  sure,  they  have  religion 
But  still  to  breed  dispute — 

Learned  in  their  creeds  and  doctrines 
To  be  in  quarrels  acute. 

They  '11  never  move  together 

An  hour  in  one  course 
Until  they  move  together 

For  divorce. 


And   Other   Poems.  335 


WOMAN. 

0  a  man  am  a  human, 
But  a  woman  am  a  woman; 
An'  dat  am  certainly  true. 

An'  when  de  debil  made  sin, 
He  chucked  a  woman  in, 

So  what  am  a  feller  gwine  to  do? 


COLUMBIA. 

As  a  river  floweth  downward 
From  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 

O  my  Country,  so  each  nation 
Floweth  ever  unto  thee. 

As  the  ocean  melts  in  vapor 
That  descends  in  gentle  rain, 

0  my  Country,  so  thy  bounty 
Nourishes  the  furtherest  plain. 

Like  the  ocean  thou  receivest, 
Like  the  ocean  render  back — 

Troubled  waters  flowing  to  thee 
Changed  to  golden,  sun-kist  rack. 


336  lone, 

Much  receiving,  more  returning; 

Like  the  ocean,  world-begot: 
Changing  all  that  empties  in  thee, 

But  thine  own  self  changing  not. 

All  the  stars  are  in  thy  bosom 
And  all  lands  lead  down  to  thee: 

Turns  the  bondman  to  thy  shore 
As  turns  the  sailor  to  the  sea. 

Like  the  ocean,  swayed  by  heaven; 

Like   the   ocean,  pure  and   deep; 
With  the  ocean's  .stored  thunders 

And  the  ocean's  splendid  sweep. 

Golden  years  shall  beat  upon  thee 
As  the  stars  beat  on  the  sea, 

Kindling  it  with  golden  splendors 
Streaming  from  infinity. 

In  the  beauty  of  thy  presence 
Like  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 

Stately  thoughts  and  noble  passions 
Ever  keep  us  company. 

0  Columbia  !  0  my  Country ! 

Fair  art  thou  and  beautiful 
As  yon  evening  sea,  blue-heaving, 

Glory-kist,  star-sown,  illimitable! 


And  Other   Poems.  337 


THE  OTHER  HALF. 

In  wretchedness  of  body  and  of  mind 
Live  half  the  wretched  sum  of  humankind; 
In  ghastly  poverty  of  blood  and  soul, 
Oblivion  their  hope  and  death  their  goal ! 
Their  birthright  stolen  in  their  mother's  womb, 
Their  hopes  betrayed  and  damned  this  side  the 

tomb ; 

The  smile  of  God  aye  turned  away  from  them 
As  if  He,  too,  their  spirits  did  condemn: 
Puppets  of  Mammon,  slaves  of  blackest  chance, 
Disease  and  crime  their  sure  inheritance! 
They  live   (0  God  in  heaven,  how  they  live!) 
Like  souls  foredoomed  to  hell,  yet  fugitive 
A  little  season  here  upon  this  earth 
To  swell  Gehenna's  lists  with  other  birth 
Wretched  as  they,  as  lost  to  heaven's  light, 
As  sunken  in  bestiality  and  night! 
Like  brutes  they  toil,  like  brutes  rewarded  are 
With    chain    and    lash,    and    galling    yoke,    and 

scar; 

While  at  each  furrow's  end  a  grave  doth  gape 
Which,     if     they     could,     they     scarcely     would 

escape ! 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  spanning  zone  to  zone 
The  poor  grow  poorer  still:  ah!  not  alone 


338  lone, 

In  fortune,  but  in  faith  and  hope  as  well; 
Hope  for  that  blessed  time  when  each  shall  dwell 
Beneath  his  own  vine  in  some  goodly  land' 
With  Peace  above  and  Joy  on  either  hand! 
The  rich  grow  richer,  not  alone  in  gold 
But  pride  and  power !     All  that  they  behold 
They  covet ;  laying  hands  upon  the  dream 
Of  poets — hands  whose  touches  base  blaspheme: 
Placing  their  seals   upon   the  seeds  of   time; 
Possessing  all  things  of  all  growth  and  clime! 
Richer  they  grow,  still  adding  more  to  more, 
And  more  to  more2  till  God  himself  seems  poor ! 


0  DOX  THY  KERCHIEF. 

0   don  thy  kerchief,   sweetheart  mine, 

And  don  thy  hood  of  lace, 
And  come  to  me  'neath  the  lemon  tree, 

Our  lovely  trysting-place. 

0  mark  how  swiftly  time  doth  fly 

And  haste  without  delay: 
Sweet  looks  like  thine  and  a  heart  like  mine 

May  not  be  young  alway. 


And  Other   Poems.  339 


BIG  GAME. 

Don't  talk  to  me  of  panther, 
Or  moose,  or  grizzly  bear; 

There  's  bigger  game  than  either 
And  plenty  everywhere. 

I  hunted  it  last  season 

And  bagged  it  every  day — 

I  know  what  I  am  saying, 

And,  h — 1,  I  '11  have  my  say! 

It  isn't  tiger,  either, 

Nor  elephant,  nor  whale; 

While,  as  for  alligators, 

They  're  only  so  much  quail. 

'T  is  bigger  game  than  ever 
Old  Nimrod's  shade  will  stalk: 

This  game  of  which  I'm  talking, 
Why,  h— 1,  it  too  can  talk! 

It  sort  of  rhymes  with  trigger — 
You  '11  surely  guess  by  that — 

This  game — why,  it  is  nigger, 
And  wears  a  shirt  and  hat! 


340  lone, 

Don't  talk  of  killing  tigers 
Nor  brag  about  the  same; 

If  you've  never  bagged  a  nigger 
You  don't  know  what  's  big  game. 

I  like  to  pot  'em  settin' 

A-high  upon  a  roof, 
And  watch  'em  come  a-tumblin' 

To  earth  head-over  hoof. 

They  squeal  to  beat  a  rabbit; 

But  when  the  nigger  's  dead 
You  feel  you've  potted  something 

And  not  been  wasting  lead! 


A  STATISTICAL  POEM. 

Suppose  there  be   (just  for  argument's  sake) 

A  billion  of  people  on  earth — 
A  probable  thing,  and  a  reasonable  thing, 

And  neither  redundance  nor  dearth. 

And  suppose  each  body  should  live  thirty  years, 
Each  woman,  each  child,  and  each  man — 

The  average  of  life  as  statistics  will  tell 
As  well  as  statistics  well  can. 


And  Other   Poems.  341 

And  suppose  each  body  should  once  in  his  life, 
Just  once,  and  no  more  and  no  less, 

Do  something  that  's  wicked — say  perjure  or  steal, 
Or  drink  of  the  cup  to  excess. 

Now  figure  that  out:  you  will  find  it  will  come 

To  ninety-nine  thousand  per  day, 
To  ninety-nine  thousand  offences  per  diem — 

'T  is  more  than  enough,  you  will  say. 

And  ninety-nine  thousand  offences  per  diem 

Makes  sixty-nine  every  minute: 
A  crime  for  each  second  ticked  off  by  the  clock — 

Good  Lord,  but  the  devil  is  in  it! 

But  now  to  my  moral  as  quick  as  a  trice, 
Or  quick  as  my  meter  will  let  me; 

And  should  I  not  prove  what  I  set  out  to  prove 
May  the  devil  statistical  get  me. 

And  what  I  intended  to  prove  from  the  first 
Is — listen  and  you  shall  all  hear — 

This   planet   called   earth   is   still   peopled   with 

saints 
Though  millions  do  sin  every  year. 

For  a  sin  every  second,  when  counted  all  up, 

Is  only  one  sin  to  each  soul, 
One  sin  in  a  life-time  of  thirty  long  years! 

So  Earth  ?s  not  so  bad  on  the  whole. 


342  lone, 

SHE     WEAES     A     STARRY     CROWN     OF 
DEEDS. 

She  wears  a  starry  crown  of  deeds 

Upon  her  angel  brow: 
She  rules  a  world  of  lovely  thoughts — 

The  Lady  of  the  Vow. 

She  moves  as  beauteous  as  a  star 

From  good  to  higher  good: 
She  is  the  bright  consummate  flower 

Of  Catholic  sisterhood. 


HER  BEAUTY  IS  A  CLIMBING  ROSE. 

Her  beauty  is  a  climbing  rose 
A-clambering  o'er  my  heart, 

A-swooning  it  in  fragrances 
Of  every  precious  sort. 

Her  beauty  is  a  golden  dew 
That  falls  upon  my  brain, 

Till  lovely  buds  of  thought  upspring 
Like  roses  after  rain. 


And   Other   Poems.  343 

Her  beauty  is  the  evening  star, 
My  soul  the  mountain  stream 

A-dream,  a-rapture   with  that  star, 
A-tremble    with   its   beam. 

Her  beauty  is  a  new-blown  rose 

My  heart  a  vase  of  light, 
And  should  you  take  the   rose  away 

That  vase  were  empty  quite! 


ENOUGH!    STRIKE   DEEP   AND  LET   ME 
GO. 

Enough !  strike  deep  and  let  me  go : 

My  friends  all,  all  are  gone, 
Only  the  foe 

Live  on. 

What,  man !  fear  not !  strike  sure  and  deep ; 

My  soul  will  take  its  flight, 
Nor  haunt  thy  sleep 

To-night. 

I  have  outlived  my  time  below, 

And  now  the  law  says,  die! 
And  even  so 

Say  I. 


344  Ione> 

Strike  deep,   and   part  the   cord  of   life! 

I  am  aweary,  friend, 
Of  hate  and  strife. 

Let  >s  end ! 

My  place  is  in  death's  chamber  hall: 

And  may  I  be  forgot 
As  my  friends  are  all 

Forgot. 

Why  dost  thou  pause  and  strangely  stare 

Nor  whet  thy  cruel  knife? 
What !     would  thou  spare 

My  life? 

Too  late!  they  killed  me  long  ago 

When  some  unkindest  one 
In  death  laid  low 

My  son. 

0  time  and  time  again  he  bled, 

Yet  labored  bravely  on: 
But  now  he  ?s  dead 

And  gone. 

He  was  the  noblest  of  us  all : 

The  last  we  had  put  by, 
Yet  first  to  fall 

And  die. 


And   Other   Poems.  345 

I  know  not  where  his  body  lies; 

And  when  I  think  of  him 
These   old   worn   eyes 

Grown  dim. 

Well,  well,  we  all  must  sometime  go, 

Each  race  must  needs  be  run; 
And  swift  or  slow, 


Strike  here,  strike  deep,  and  many  thanks! 

I  see  that  life  '&  a  game, 
And  we  drew  blanks. 

Take  aim! 

What  's  that  you  say  ?  Sit  still,  my  heart ! 

Our  noble  cause  hath  won, 
And  thou — thou  art — 

My  son! 

No,  no !  it  were  a  bitter  jest 

To  fool  an  old  man  so. 
Ah,  it  were  best 

I  go. 

How  now,  you  seem  to  pity  me! 
.    And  you  would  still  my  fears — 
And  set  me  free — 
With  tears ! 


346  lone, 

0  Gracious  God,  this  is  my  son! 

And  these — He  makes  amends — 
Friends,  friends,  each,  one, 

Dear  friends! 


MAMMON. 

Mammon  I  am!  with  the  power  to  damn 

The  born  and  the  unborn  too! 
Supreme  I  rule  over  church  and  school, 

Over  Christian  and  pagan  and  Jew. 

I  am  the  king  of  the  times,  and  can  bring 

Caesars  to  kiss  my  rod; 
And  the  nations  bend  while  I  shape  their  end 

Even  as  I  were  a  god. 

No  power  dare  say  my  authority  nay — 
Nor  Republic,  nor  Kingdom,  nor  State; 

And  what  I  command  I  have  forces  at  hand 
To  accomplish  as  surely  as  Fate. 

The  young  and  the  old  are  alike  in  my  hold — 
The  infant,  the  youth,  and  the  sire; 

The  tramp  in  the  ditch,  and  the  arrogant  rich 
In  silken  and  purple  attire. 


And  Other  Poems.  347 

Under  my  heel  I  have  ground  the  seal 
Dividing  the  right  from  the  wrong, 

And  corrupted  the  gauge  of  reward  and  wage, 
And  given  the  earth  to  the  strong. 

I  come  between  the  king  and  his  queen 

And  the  beggar  and  his  drab; 
And  I  set  at  strife  the  husband  and  wife, 

And   teach   them   to   poison   or   stab. 

I  hold  in  my  hand  the  laws  of  the  land 

And  amend  and  interpret  at  will; 
And  I  am  the  court  of  last  resort, 

And  he  who  offends  me,  I  kill. 

I  stand  like  Fate  on  the  ship  of  State 

And  its  wheel  is  in  my  hand. 
And  calm  and  wrack  are  at  my  back, 

Minions  of  my  command. 

The  poets  obey  whatever  I  say 

Though  angels  are  hymning  near; 

And  I  dictate  their  love  and  their  hate, 
And'  force  their  laughter  or  tear. 

I  tower  above  the  spirit  of  love 

As   the  hawk  above  his  prey; 
I  loosen  and  bind  the  thinker's  mind, 

And  shape  his  thoughts  like  clay. 


348  lone, 

'Twixt  the  wornb  and  the  -grave  each  woman  's 
a  slave 

Bartered  and  bought  by  me; 
I  appoint  her  place  of  shame  or  of  grace, 

Of  honor  or  infamy. 

With  gloves  of  gold  I  knead  and  mold 

The  living  hearts  of  men ; 
And  I  direct  what  all  project — 

Labor  of  loom  or  pen. 

0  the  preachers  preach  and  the  scholars  teach 

And  book  is  added  to  book, 
And  philosophy  weaves  her  gathered  sheaves 

And  wears  her  momentous  look. 

But  I  am  behind  each  book  and  each  mind 

As  the  cause  is  behind  the  effect; 
And  though  fabrics  rise  till  they  kiss  the  skies 

I  am  their  architect. 


MARRIAGE. 

She  passed   for  twenty,  he  was  twenty-two; 
His  hair  was  slightly  red,  her  eyes  were  blue; 
They  met,  and,  meeting,  saw  the  world  in  each, 
And,  meeting  once  again,  found  means  of  speech; 


And   Other   Poems.  349 

From  speech  to  kisses  was  a  single  stride 
And,  first  he  knew,  the  lady  was  his  bride: 
Indeed,  he'd  just  begun  to  feel  love's  thrills 
When  he  awoke — to  pay  the  lady's  bills. 
(Lord!  marriage  is  a  sudden  thing  at  best 
And  all  is  lost  before  we  can  protest ! ) 

But  they  were  young,  and  though  they  won- 
dered some, 

Each  at  the  other,  yet  they  did  not  come 
To  words  of  anger  till  some  months  had  passed, 
When  love  gave  place  to  apathy  at  last, 
And,  growing  cold,  they  each  grew  critical 
And  questioned  why  they  came  to  wed  at  all. 
Too  late  they  one  another's  faults  espied; 
Too  late !  the  bans  were  read,  the  knot  was  tied, 
And  now  (0  not  the  last  nor  yet  the  first!) 
They    needs    must    make    the    best — of    still    the 
worst! 

She  looked  before  her  wedding  to  those  days 
When,  bondage-free,  she  went  her  maiden  ways, 
And  wished  to  heaven  she  were  back  once  more 
And  had  her  marriage  business  to  do  o'er, 
Or,  in  her  mind  went  o'er  the  wedding  form — 
But  't  was  another  man  who  held  her  arm! 
While  he — since  he  had  time  to  think  it  o'er — 
'T  was  strange  he'd  never  thought  of  it  before — 
He  now  remembered  she  had  been  as  hot 
To  marry  him  as  if  it  were  a  plot, 


350  lone, 

As  free  of  favors  as  a  wishing  ring, 
As  light  to  snare  as  bird  without  a  wing. 
And  had  she  been  as  free  with  other  men, 
As  liberal  of  favors — had  she  then? 
By  heaven !  she  was  cheaper  for  the  thought, 
And  if  't  were  so  indeed,  then  she  was  naught. 
Another  month  and   they  had   quarreled  out- 
right, 

He  stirred  by  jealousy  and  she  by  spite; 
Some  things  they  told  each  other  that  't  were 

best 

That  they  had  whispered  in  a  serpent's  nest. 
Then  'gan  the  daily  feud  and  hourly  jar, 
The  open  rupture  and  admitted  war, 
The  cat-and-dog-life  of  the  wedded  state 
When  passion  dies  and  love  is  turned  to  hate. 
Their  home  became  a  place  to  keep  their  clothes, 
To  part  as  strangers  or  to  meet  as  foes, 
To  leave  the  baby   (when  the  baby  came), 
And  had  no  other  use,   it  seemed,  or  claim. 
Then  infidelity  rose  up  unclean, 
That  scarlet  shape  long  felt  ere  yet  *t  is  seen — 
Her  lover  found  her  husband   false  as  dice, 
Whereat  she  sought  a  lawyer  for  advice. 
A  suit  was  then  begun  and  truth  let  loose 
To  play  the  very  devil  without  truce. 
The  wonder  grew  that  things  had  gone  so  far 
Before  they  brought  their  troubles  to  the  bar; 


And  Other   Poems.  351 

She  charged,  he  charged;  complaint  and  cross- 
complaint 
Till  scandal  held  its  nostrils  and  grew  faint. 

Then  on  a  certain  day  the  case  was  tried, 
The  knot  that  bound  them  legally  untied, 
She  got  the  child,  he  paid  her  counsel  fee, 
And  each,  according  to  the  law,  was  free. 
He  paid  her  alimony  once  or  twice 
Then,  being  shrewd,  he  took  his  own  advice 
And  left  his  troubles  and  his  state  behind 
For  parts  unknown  and  more  unto  his  mind. 
She  found  another  father  for  her  child, 
An  easy-going  fellow,  weak  and  mild: 
They  lived  together   twenty  years  or  so 
Then  died  or  parted,  which,  I  do  not  know. 


IF  HALF  THE  EICHES  SPENT  ON  WAR. 

If  half  the  riches  spent  on  war 

Were   spent  upon   the  mind, 
Then  Heaven  would  not  seem  so  far, 

Nor  Fate  would  be  so  blind. 

If  half  the  forethought  given  wealth 

Were  given  to  the  soul, 
Our  brows  would  press  the  crown  of  health, 

And  millions  sick  be  whole. 


352  lone, 

If  half  the  labor  spent  in  dress 
Were  spent  to  banish  grime, 

Then  Beauty  would  rise  up  and  bless 
The  spirit  of  the  time. 

If  half  the  money  spent  on  drink 
Were  spent  on  cultured  taste, 

More  men  would  be  like  men,  I  think, 
More  women  would  be  chaste. 

If  half  the  watch  from  barracks  kept 
Were  kept  from  Christian  shrine, 

The  angels,  though  they  sometimes  wept, 
Would  weep  from  joy  divine. 

If  half  the  prisons  built  for  men 
Were  built   for  training  youth, 

Men    would   be   nearer   Honor,   then, 
And  Law  be  nearer  Truth. 

If  half  that  ?s  spent  on  things  that  pass 

Were  spent  upon  the  soil, 
Then  women  need  not  slave  like  brass 

Nor  little  children  moil. 

If  half  that  's  wasted  on  the  sword 

Were  spent  upon  the  pen, 
What  living  truths  we  should  record, 

What  poets  would  be  then. 


And  Other  Poems.  353 


ODE  TO  THE  AIRSHIP. 

Thou  rare  soft-soaring  car,   wherein  we   feel 

The  waking-dream  of  wingsv  at  last  come  true ; 
Thou  marriage-graceful  of  bright  silk  and  steel 

Climbing  the  highways  of  the  steadfast  blue; 
Not  rosy  Bacchus  nor  his  merry  bards, 

In  Tempe  or  in  Thessaly  divine, 
E'er  urged  pleasure-wards 

Chariot  one-half  so  luxurious  as  thine! 

Rare  is  a  mount  upon  a  mettled  steed, 

Rare  is  a  canter  through  the  dewy  morn, 
Rare  are  all  joys  equestrian  indeed; 

Ah,  rare  the  throne  behind  the  saddle-horn! 
Rare  are  the  motions  of  a  white-winged  yacht 

Parting  the  spindrift  of  the  purple  tide, 
When  days  are  sultry-hot 

Save  where  the  bright  sea  opens  cool  and  wide ! 

But  thou,  oh  latest  birth  of  speed  and  flight, 

Intelligence  of  woven  silk,  and  fire, 
Thy  spell  is  rarer  still:  thou  dost  invite 

Entirely,  and,  inviting,  never  tire ! 
The  hand  that  grasps  thy  lever  hath  sure  hold 

Of  Pleasure's  silken  girdle;  and  who  ride 
Thee  up  the  morning  gold 

Sweep  through  bright  gates  elysian  open  wide! 


354          Ione> 

WHEN  BEAUTY  BUILDS  BENEATH  THE 
STAES. 

When  Beauty  builds  beneath  the  stars 

A  temple  all  divine, 
The  Poet  is  the  architect 

Who  shapes  the  high  design. 

» 
Before  the  doing  is  the  dream, 

Before   the   work,   the   plan; 
Without  the  Poet  what  were  then 

The   proudest   artisan? 

His  pencil  drew  entempled  Greece 

Upon  the  hearts  of  men 
A  thousand  years  ere  Pericles 

Was  Athen's  citizen. 


LENORE. 

Lenore,  was  her  name! 
From  worlds  above  she  came: 
She  brought  me  Eden  in  her  face 

And  heaven  in  her  eyes, 
And  for  a  little  blessed  space 

We  dwelt  in  paradise: 


And  Other  Poems.  355 

0  then  the  white-rose  bloom, 

Aslant  her  marble  tomb, 
Bar'd  out  the  precious  sight  of  her 
And  shut  my  heaven  up  in  the  voiceless  sepulchre ! 


CAN  THIS  BE  HOME,  SWEET  HOME? 

The  hands  that  rocked  me  in  the  cradle 

I  have  crossed  for  evermore; 
The  face  that  watched  my  homeward  coming 

Watches  no  more  at  the  door: 
She  is  dead,  my  darling  mother, 

And  I  wander  through  our  home; 
But  the  face  I  seek  is  sleeping 

Underneath  the  grassy  loam ! 

Can  this  be  home,  sweet  home, 

With  mother  dead  and  gone? 
Can  this  be  that  dear  haven 

That  yesterday  she  called  Sweet  Home, 
Where  yesterday  she  sang  Sweet  Home? 

Her  touch  could  charm  away  all  sadness, 

Her  hair  was  soft  as  sleep; 
She  brought  a  smile  to  crown  my  gladness, 

She  left  me  not  alone  to  weep. 


356  lone, 

I've   had   companions,   but   my   mother 
Was   a    friend   before  them   all; 

And  I  thought  her  most  secure 
When   she  heard   the   angels   call! 

Can  this  be  home,  sweet  home, 
With  mother  dead  and  gone? 

Can  this  be  that  dear  haven 
That  yesterday  she  called  Sweet  Home, 

Where  yesterday  she  sang  Sweet  Home  ? 


FANCY'S  BARK. 

0  bright  Fancy,  come  to  me 

O'er  the  deep  blue  western  sea, 

Come  upon  the  salt  airs  sweet 

While  the  spray  drifts  'round  my  feet; 

Come,  bright  Fancy,  be  my  guide 

O'er  the  golden  sunset  tide! 

Love  was  born  beside  the  sea 

Where  I  stand  and  call  to  thee, 

But  I  seek  not  Love  to-day, 

Mocking  me  through  driven  spray — 

What  is  wanton  Love  to  me 

While  my  bark  is  on  the  sea, 

While  each  chaliced  wave  shall  hold 

A  star  of  trembling  gold; 


And   Other   Poems.  357 

While  the  sun  shall  sink  to  rest 
On  the  sea's  dark-heaving  breast, 
While  the  bright,  soft-pacing  moon 
Shall  attain  her  queenly  noon 
Right  above  a  stately  mast 
Piercing  to  the  starry  vast? 
0  bright  Fancy,  hasten  then 
From  the  shores  of  Darien — 
Must  I  sail  the  sea  no  more, 
Ever  chained  to  this  bleak  shore, 
Who  am   drunk  on   driven   foam 
From  my  dark-heaving  home? 


Now  you  fade  again,  bleak  shore, 
Now  I  sail  the  sea  once  more! 
Blow,  ye  airs,  straight  to  my  heart, 
Fill,  ye  sails,  and  do  your  part; 
O'er  the  mountains  of  the  sea, 
Down  its  valleys,  blue  and  free, 
I  and  Fancy,  on  and  on, 
Sail  toward  the  gates  of  dawn. 
Lo !  I  hear  the  sea-bird's  call 
Like  a  voice  from  heaven  fall, 
Sweeter,  sweeter,  near  to  pain 
Like  a  dead  voice  heard  again: 
While  upon  my  lisfning  ear 
Fall  those  sounds  I  love  so  dear — 


358  lone, 

Sound  of  wind  and  sound  of  tide, 
Of  the   waters   flowing  wide 
'Bound  the  brow  of  Fancy's  bark; 
Sounds  that  but  old  sailors  hark; 
Sounds  but  to  the  sailor  dear; 
Sounds   that   sailors   love   and   fear! 
Oh,  I  hear  and  I  rejoice, 
And  each  sound  is  as  a  voice 
Calling  to  its  sister  sound 
That  the  sailor  has  been  found, 
That  he  hath  come  home  again 
Sailing  on  past  Darien, 
Sailing  o'er  the  drifting  foam 
Of  his   dark-heaving  home. 


A   MEMORY. 

He  puts  aside  his  playthings  all 
His  soldiers,  blocks,  and  drum, 

And  holding  out  his  baby  hands 
He  begs  his  mother  come. 

I  feel  his  arms  about  my  neck, 
His  cheek  against  my  cheek — 

So  drowsy  are  his  rosy  lips 
They  murmur  and  not  speak. 


And  Other   Poems.  359 

I  press  him  closer  to  my  heart, 

And  smooth  his  curly  hair, 
Then  lay  him  in  his  little  cot 

And  leave  him  sleeping  there. 

He  wakes  and  calls  me  back  again 

And  begs  some  promised  toy; 
And  I — I  grant  him  anything — 

My  sweet,  dead  little  boy! 


TRUTH. 

The  naked  Truth  was  in  the  cold — 

The  Poet  took  it  in 
And  clothed  it  in  bright  mail  of  gold 

As  Jt  were  his  dearest  kin. 

And  fed  its  lips  on  honey-dew 

Distilled  of  freshest  song; 
Then   led   it   forth   where   Error   drew 

Her  python  length  along. 

The  youngest  scholar  knows  the  rest — 
How  Truth  smote  Error  cold! 

But  honor  unto  him  who  drest 
The  Truth  in  mail  of  gold. 


360  lone, 

SCANDAL. 

0  Scandal  has  quitted  her  perch  as  the  falcon, 

And  flaps  her  cruel  pinions  above, 
And  hunteth  the  Dove  of  my  passion  that  soareth 

A-high  in  the  heavens  of  love. 

And  Gladness  is  frightened  away  as  the  turtle 

Is  frightened  away  by  the  hawk, 
And  all  the  bright  brood  of  sweet  Pleasure  is 
silent 

As  linnets  when  hooting  owls  stalk. 


RHYME. 

What  strange  philosophies  rhyme  leads  us  to 
Only  the  poets  know — the  minstrel  crew. 
— ?T  was  Samuel  Butler  once  upon  a  £ime 
Said  that  the  rudder  of  all  verse  is  rhyme, 
But  nowhere  has  old  Butler  set  it  down, 
(Perhaps  he  knew,   but   feared  the  church   and 

crown ! ) 

How  that  in  this  wide  world  of  yours  and  mine 
Somewhere  may  be  religions  called  divine, 
And  schools  and  systems  and  philosophies 
And  faiths  that  move  the  heart  and  bend  the 

knees, 


And   Other   Poems.  361 

Born  of  a  poet's  thought,  which  thought  sublime 
\\as  forced  upon  the  poet  by  his  rhyme, 
And  by  him  accepted  for  the  rhyme  at  stake, 
And  not  for  truth's  or  inspiration's  sake. 


I  KNOW,  I  KNOW  WHERE  THE  SUNBEAMS 
GO. 

I  know,  I  know  where  the  sunbeams  go 

Whenever  the  day-star  dies; 
Into  the  face  of  my  love  they  go, 

To  sparkle  again  in  her  eyes. 

I  know  where  the  violets  all  have  gone 

When  winter  is  in  the  grove; 
Into  the  veins  of  my  love  they  go 

To  pulse  in  purple  and  mauve. 

I  know,  I  know  where  the  melody  goes 
When  the  harper  doth  cease  to  rejoice; 

Into  the  throat  of  my  love  it  goes, 
To  awaken  again  in  her  voice. 

I  know  where  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  gone 
When  the  rose  is  withered  in  death; 

Into  the  lips  of  my  love  ?t  is  gone, 
And  rises  again  in  her  breath. 


362  lone, 

I  know,  I  know  where  all  kind  thoughts  go 
When  the  thinker  has  given  them  o'er; 

Into  the  heart  of  my  love  they  go, 
To  dwell  in  that  heart  evermore. 


THE  OLD  FOLKS  ARE  GROWING  OLD, 
OLD! 

The  old  folks  are  talking  of  buying  two  graves, 
Two  graves  on  the  hillside  so  cold; 

Two  graves  side-by-side  far  out  under  the  stars! 
0  the  old  folks  are  growing  old,  old! 

The  old  folks  are  talking  of  buying  a  stone, 
A  stone  to  be  placed  o'er  their  mold; 

A  stone  that  will  mark  where  they  sleep  the  long 

sleep ! 
0  the  old  folks  are  growing  old,  old! 

The  old  folks  were  out  in  the  graveyard  to-day, 
The  sun  was  just  setting  in  gold; 

They  walked  hand-in-hand  and  they  chose  out  two 

graves! 
0  the  old  folks  are  growing  old,  old! 


And  Other  Poems.  363 

"Dear  Mary,"  said  Robert,  "we'll  sleep  side  by 
side 

Here  under  the  dew  and  the  mold, 
And  awaken  together  in  the  smile  of  the  Lord!" 

0  the  old  folks  are   growing  old,   old! 


THE  LAND  OF  WASHINGTON. 

0  say  where  is  the  land  of  Washington, 
The  land  of  Franklin  and  of  Jefferson; 
That  pleasant  land  along  a  pleasant  sea 
Where    Freedom   sprung,   where    laughed    bright 

Liberty, 

Where  honor  shone  more  splendidly  than  gold 
And  manhood  was  not  bought  nor  statehood  sold? 

1  cannot  find  it  on  the  world's  wide  map 
That  lies  outspread  before  me  on  my  lap ! 
"T  is  not  in  Europe!  No;  though  Thessaly 
The  Beautiful  is  there;  and  Arcady, 
Bright  Arcady  with  all  her  lakes  and  rills, 
Her  verdant  valleys  and  her  wooded  hills ! 
But,  stay,  perhaps  it  northward  lies  by  chance 
Amidst  the   pleasant  vales   of  sunny   France, 
Or  southward  in  the  land  of  Italy 

Which  dips  an  hundred  cities  in  an  azure  sea! 
Ah,  no!  the  kindly  land  of  Washington 
Keposes  not  beneath  Italian  sun, 


364  lone, 

Nor  can  I  find  it  in  bright  Thessaly, 
Nor  yet  in  France  nor  sunny  Arcady. 
Then  does  it  lie  on  the  Castilian  shore 
By  Biscay's  Bay  or  by  Gibraltar's  door? 
Ah,  no,  not  here !    Nor  northward  on  the  isles 
Where  Briton  rules  o'er  her  enkingdomed  miles. 
'T  is  not  in  Europe !   Nay ;  nor  in  Araby, 
Nor  Persia,  nor  along  the  Indian  sea, 
Nor  in  that  Empire  wintry  as  the  moon 
And  one  half  hidden  like  the  distant  moon, 
Russia  the  vast;  nor  yet  in  Egypt's  land 
Where  Cheops  looks  forever  o'er  a  world  of  sand ! 
No,  not  in  Africa  can  it  be  found 
This  land  of  Washington,  this  holy  ground; 
Nor  in  Australia ;  nor  the  islands  that  surround 
That  larger  Isle ;  nor  where  the  Great  Wall  runs 
Sheer  by  the  Tartar  Empire  with  her  myriad  sons ! 
So  look  I  elsewhere  on  the  world's  wide  map 
Which  lies  outspread  before  me  on  my  lap, 
And  search  out  every  land — aye,  every  one — 
To  find  the  kindly  land  of  Washington; 
But  nowhere  can  I  find  it,  though  I  seek 
From  hot  Brazil  to  Greenland  cold  and  bleak! 
Yet,  stay,  here  is  a  country  broad  and  vast, 
The   mightiest,  the  richest,   and   the   last; 
America!  we  call  it  on  the  map — 
America!  a  name  for  gods  to  clap! 


And  Other  Poems.  365 

The  States  United  and  the  States  supreme, 

Time's  chief est  work  and  history's  noblest  theme! 

0  say,  is  this  the  land  of  Washington, 

The  land  of  Franklin  and  of  Jefferson? 

Can  this,  our  Country,  be  that  holy  seat 

Where  darkness  sank  reproved  and  tyrants  met 

defeat? 

That  young  Republic,  lit  with  Freedom's  star, 
That  loosed  Religion's  chain  and  broke  the  feudal 

bar? 

Ah,  no !  it  seems,  but  yet  it  cannot  be — 
Too  great,  too  wide,  is  the  diversity ! 
The  land  of  Washington,  though  thousands  fell, 
Was  not  Oppression's  seat,  nor  Mammon's  hell; 
It  was  not  eaten  with  the  golden-rot; 
The  hungry  were  but  few — those  few  were  not  for- 
got: 

It  sweetened  fifty  years  of  history 
And  smells  sweet  yet !    So  then  it  cannot  be 
That  this,  our  Country,  is  that  kindly  land 
Where  Washington  once  stood  and  now  his  works 

should   stand. 

Ah,  no!  though  fondly  we  would  have  them  one 
This  land  is  not  the  land  of  Washington! 
Here  Mammon  rules ;  Oppression  has  her  hold ; 
And  woe  to  him  who  is  both  poor  and  old! 
Here  men,  like  vultures,  in  high  places  sit, 
And,  having  gorged,  gorge  on  and  will  not  quit! 


366  lone, 

Here  Opportunity  has  closed  her  gate 
And  barred  out  thousands  that  on  merit  wait ! 
Here  nothing  greater  is  than  minted  gold 
Saving  more  gold !     Here  honor  's  bought  and 

sold 
And  rogues  and  caitiffs  feast  while  Virtue  shakes 

with  cold! 

The  very  rich  here  fear  the  greater  rich, 
The  poor  fear  all !     Here  principle  's  a  ditch 
Wherein  to  stumble  and  be  trod  upon, 
But  damned  hypocrisy  's  a  level  lawn 
Where  millions  move  secure   though   hell   itself 

should  yawn ! 

The  land  of  Washington !     It  is  not  here 
In  this,  our  Country;  nor  this  country  near! 
In  this,  our   Counhr,  this,  our  native  land, 
With  blue  skies  o'er,  blue  seas  on  either  hand, 
Eternal  springs  in  her  bosom  and  gold  in  all  her 

sand, 

We  rob  the  toiler  in  his  mother's  womb, 
We  rob  him  in  his  sickness,  in  his  tomb, 
We  steal  his  widow's  labor,  and  his  orphans'  doom ! 
0  then,  this  cannot  be  the  land  I  seek, 
The  land  we  often  hear  of,  often  speak, 
The  dear,  the  kindly  land  of  Washington, 
The  land  of  Franklin  and  of  Jefferson! 
So  putting  from  my  hands  the  world's  wide  map 
Which  lay  outspread  before  me  on  my  lap, 


And  Other   Poems.  367 

I  write  it  down  in  sorrow  yet  in  truth — 

The  land  of  Washington,  beloved  of  youth, 

Of  age  thrice  honored  and  thrice  dear  in  song, 

Has  vanished  from  the  earth  these  ages  long: 

Perhaps  ere  Plato's  time,  or  Ptolemy's, 

It  sunk  with  bright  Atlantis  into  the  purple  seas, 

Or  else,  removed  by  centuries  of  time, 

Long  leagues  of  space,  beneath  some  other  clime 

Far  distant,  say  in  yonder  golden  star, 

It  had  its  radiant  seat  and  dazzled  from  afar! 


GLADNESS. 

0  Gladness  has  come  as  the  robin  returns, 

And  sings  in  my  garden  again! 
The  robin  whose  breast  with  her  happy  heart  burns, 

Eare  lover  of  children  and  men. 


Right  under  my  window  she  turneth  her  note, 

Her  note  which  is  sweetest  of  all, 
And   floods   the   bright  heaven   from   one  spirit 
throat, 

And  comes  to  my  hand  at  my  call. 


368  lone, 

And  my  heart  like  a  mocking-bird  mocks  her  all 
day 

And  wakes  through  the  night  with  her  glee — 
For  love  is  the  measure  and  rhythm  of  her  lay, 

The  burden,  the  chord,  and  the  key! 


LIBERTY  LIVES:  HER  SOLDIER  IS  DEAD. 

0  Rose  of  the  Valley, 
0  Rose  of  the  Vale, 

1  found  thee  all  blushing 
But  left  thee  all  pale. 

I  brought  thee  the  story 

Of  war  o'er  the  sea, 
Of  death  on  the  waters 

And  death  on  the  lea. 

I  brought  thee  Love's  message 

From  over  the  wave, 
A  curl  from  his  forehead 

A  flower  from  his  grave. 

He   faced  the  baptism 

Of  fire  and  of  lead — 
And  liberty  lives 

But  her  soldier  is  dead ! 


And  Other   Poems.  3619 

LOVE. 

Love  makes  the  world  over, 

Love   keeps   the   world   young; 

And  love  is  the  sweetest  song 
Sung  or  unsung. 

Love  is  a  sorrow, 

And  Love  is  a  cheat: 
Love  makes  us  to  hunger, 

Then  takes  'way  the  meat. 

Love  is  a  higher  life 

Lived  in  this  one; 
The  only   Elysium 

Under  the  sun. 

Love  's  a  contradiction 

And   Love  is   a   fraud: 
For  Love  we  cast  heaven  by 

And  worship  a  gaud. 

Love  takes  the  man  pris'ner, 

Then   sets   his   soul   free 
To  soar  in  a  higher  world 

With  angel  company. 

Love  wakes  the  thick  dullard 

And  puts  him  to  school; 
Love  sits  the  philosopher 

On  the  dunce-stool. 


37°  lone, 

Love,  oh  what  art  thou — 
Angel  or  devil? 

Brightest  of  bright  things 
Or  blackest  of  evil  ? 


MY  QUEEN. 

0  Queen  of  the  Isles  of  Perfume  and  Smiles, 

Queen  of  those  Isles  and  of  me, 
The  air  that  blows  from  the  sweet  tuberose 

Was  never  as  sweet  as  thee, 
Nor  the  dulcet  note  from  the  oriole's  throat 

Can  match  thy  harmony. 

0  Queen  of  the  Isles  of  Perfume  and  Smiles, 
With  the  airs  of  Heaven  thou  art  fanned, 

And  the  flowers  they  press  the  hem  of  thy  dress 
Whenever  you  walk  in  the  land, 

And  like  a  flame  of  fire  the  rose  climbs  higher 
Striving  to  touch  thy  hand. 

0  Queen  of  the  Isles  of  Perfume  and  Smiles 

And  arbiter  of  my  fate, 

Thou  hast  shaken  all  care  from  thy  sun-bright 
hair 

And  put  off  the  girdle  of  state, 
And  I  follow  after  the  voice  of  thy  laughter 

And  come  to  thy  garden  gate. 


And  Other  Poems.  371 

We  meet  on  the  green,  my  Love  and  my  Queen, 

And  the  rose  is  between  us  two; 
A  red,  red  rose  that  swings  and  glows 

Like  a  censer  of  perfume  and  dew; 
While  unbeholden  from  the  distance  golden 

The  oriole  sings  his  adieu. 

A  moment  you  stand  with  outstreiched  hand 

And  welcome  me  debonair, 
Then  all  proud  and  pale  thou  drawest  thy  veil 

Concealing  thy   brow  so   fair; 
But  ah  the  soft  lace  you  draw  o'er  thy  face 

Leaves  thy  warm  bosom  all  bare. 

0  rose  look  away!  0  heart  look  away! 

0   oriole   cease   thy   strain 
Till  my  Queen  shall  veil  her  bosom  all  pale 

With  its  purple  warmth  of  vein; 
Till  the  sweet  unrest  of  my  young  Queen's  breast 

Is  hid  in  her  silken  train ! 


Quickly  you  turn  and  your  sweet  cheeks  burn 

With  virgin  modesty  through; 
Quickly  you  veil  thy  bosom  now  pale 

Through  all  its  veins  of  blue — 
Fate  made  thee  a  queen  with  stately  mien 

But  made  thee  a  woman  too. 


372  lone, 

0   my  sweet  girl   Queen,   what  eye  hath  seen 

The  path  that  leads  to  thy  heart  ? 
Not  the  eagle  above  nor  the  homing  dove 

Aught  of  that  path  can  impart; 
Nor  the  fleeting  hind  that  path  can  find 

With  all  her  cunning  and  art. 

For  there  :'s  a  path  that  the  eagle  hath 
Seen  never  from  the  clouds  above, 

Nor  the  lark  in  its  flight  nor  the  bird  of  night, 
Nor  hind,  nor  hart,  nor  dove — 

The  secret  path,  the  wonderful  path 
That  leads  to  a  woman's  love. 

That  path  is  known  to  brave  men  alone 

Who  do  their  honor  no  wrong, 
And  though  I  were  blind  that  path  I  shall  find 

That  leads  to  thy  heart  along; 
Nor  the  gods  shall  say  my  spirit  nay 

As  I  take  that  path  with  song. 

Ah,  well  I  ween  that  thou  art  a  queen, 

0  gracious  lady  of  mine, 
Queen  of  the  Isles  of  Perfume  and  Smiles, 

And  queen  by  a   right  divine; 
As  high  and  proud  as  yon  golden  cloud 

Trailing  its  robes  of  sunshine! 


And  Other   Poems.  373 

But  the  poet  springs  of  a  line  of  kings, 

Born   in  the  purple  of  song, 
And  I  shall  not  wait  for  robes  of  state 

Nor  fear  that  1  do  thee  wrong, 
For  this  name  of  mine  is  as  high  as  thine 

And  my  kingly  line  is  as  long. 

I  have  followed  after  the  voice  of  thy  laughter 

And  come  to  thy  wicket  gate;- 
I  have  bribed  the  warden  of  this  sun-bright  garden 

With  a  bribe  that  was  passionate; 
And  now  I  wist  to  my  love  thou  wilt  list, 

0  arbiter  of  my  fate. 

Often  you   hark  to   the   sweet   meadowlark 

Singing  from  heaven  blue, 

And  thine  ear  it  hath  heard  the  whistling  black- 
bird, 

And  the  note  of  the  oriole  too: 
Then  need  I  to  fear  you  ?11  not  lend  an  ear 

Unto  a  love  that  is  true? 

0  the  love  of  a  man  is  more  precious  than 

An  anthem  at  heaven's  gate; 
Than  whistling  blackbird,  or  the  music  that  ?s  stir'd 

In  the  oriole's  heart  by  its  mate: 
JT  is  no  fleeting  note   from  a   dumb  creature's 
throat 

But  a  human  cry  passionate. 


374  lone, 

0  Queen  of  the  Isles  of  Perfume  and  Smiles, 

Queen  of  those  Isles  and  of  me, 
The  grass  lies  sweet  under  our  feet 

And  sweet  is  the  lilac  tree, 
The  red  rose  swings  and  the  oriole  sings 

And  my  heart  goeth  out  to  thee. 

Then  lift  the  warm  lace  from  thy  queenly  face 
And  soften  this  silence  with  a  glance; 

For  my  heart  must  ache  and  my  heart  must  break 
While  you  keep  me  in  ignorance: 

Say  thou  wilt  be  more  than  queen  to  me, 
And  swift  be  thy  utterance. 

Then  this  love  I  have  nurst  like  the  white  rose 

shall  burst 

And  fill  all  thy  path  with  light; 
And  my  heart  shall  be  a  new  kingdom  for  thee 

To  rule  over  day  and  night; 
And  the  strength  of  my  arm  shall  shield  thee 

from  harm 
Till  heaven  burst  on  thy  sight. 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  THE  POORHOUSE. 

Over  the  hills  to  the  poorhouse 

Love  is  going  to-day, 
And  all  the  flowers  are  weeping 

That  bloom  along  his  way. 


And   Other   Poems.  375 

Over  the  hills  to  the  poorhouse, 

Over  the  hills  of  June, 
And  all  the  birds  are  silent, 

And  the  brooks  are  out  of  tune. 

Over  the  hills  to  the  poorhouse, 

Over  the  western  hills, 
Through  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

And  the  yellow  daffodils. 

Over  the  hills  to  the  poorhouse 

Love  is  going  to-day, 
And  Mammon  is  going  before  him 

Showing  him  on  his  way! 


WAR. 

Of  War,  I  sing;  of  bloody  war  and  long; 
War  'gainst  the  weak  and  war  amongst  the  strong : 
Red  war,  that  runs  the  rivers  thick  with  blood, 
Wasting  the  nations  like  another  Flood ! 
War  crimson,  lurid,  deep  and  damned  as  hell; 
War,  certain  war  where'er  two  brothers  dwell. 
Of  war,  that  great  prophetic  war,  I  sing, 
Whose  vultures  even  now  are  on  the  wing; 
The  last,  the  worst,  the  blackest  of  all  wars, 
Whose  smoke,  ascending,  shall  blot  out  the  stars! 


376  lone, 

The  hour  was  written  and  the  hour  has  ooine — 
The  world's  four  winds  bring  beating  of  the  drum, 
The  blare  of  trumpet,  and  the  sound  of  fife, 
Foregathering  all  nations  to  the  strife ! 
Not  Europe  now  alone,  but  all  the  earth 
Comes  forth  to  battle !  Like  some  monster  birth 
Of  coil  in  coil  and  scale  overlapping  scale, 
Blinding  high  heaven  with  its  glist'ning  mail 
It  issues  forth !  0  God,  but  to  behold 
Would  make  the  blood  of  Lucifer  run  cold! 


WHAT  DREAMS  UNTO  THE   RICH  WILL 
COME ! 

What  dreams  unto  the  rich  will  come! 

I  dreamt  I  dwelt  within  a  slum 

Where   loathsome   things   in   human   guise 

Slunk  loathsomely  'neath  loathsome  skies; 

A  nefarious,  accursed  spot 

That  on  hell  itself  would  cast  a  darker  blot ! 

Hard  by  a  city  (thickly  sown 
With  golden  steeples)  overgrown 
With  hovels  as  with  blasted  brake 
It  lay,  and  heaven  seemed  to  ache 
Above  it,  and  the  moon's  dim  flood 
Changed  in  its  thick  and  murky  air  to  blood. 


And   Other   Poems.  377 

Methought  I  came  (nor  came  alone!) 
From  palace  wrought  in  precious  stone, 
Down,  down,  (as  one  descends  to  hell!) 
Into  this  slum  where  horrors  dwell: 
This  noisome,  dark,  and  damned  place 
With  human  horror  for  a  populace. 

Nor  came  alone !   My  wife  and  child 

Clung  to  me:  bright  their  eyes  and  wild, 

All  pale  their  lips,  and  ah,  they  shook 

Like  slaves  with  cold;  and  in  their  look 

Despair  I  saw  in  its  extreme, 

And,  writhing,  cursed  God  in  my  sleep  and  dream. 

Shame  first  we  met !  Shame  face  to  face, 
And  shame's  familiar,  foul  disgrace; 
Then  misery,  then  wretched  want, 
Then  hunger — hunger  stern  and  gaunt! 
Then  came  one  tempting,  tempting  me 
To  traffic  with  my  daughter's  chastity! 

God,  how  I  wrestled  in  my  dream 
With  that  which  was  not,  yet  did  seem: 
How  sternly  did  I  struggle  then, 
All  men  against  me,  'gainst  all  men: 
liet  in  that  hour  of  sleep  learned  more 
Than  e'er  in  all  my  waking  hours  before. 


378  lone, 

I  learned  how  millions  daily  dwell 

In  torment  out-tormenting  hell: 

I  learned  what  living  costs  the  poor 

When  gold  is  to  be  had  no  more: 

I  learned  the  price  that  thousands  pay 

To  keep  themselves  in  bread  day  unto  day. 

Then,  waking,  bowed  my  fevered  head 

Ashamed  of  mine  own  wealth,  and  said: 

0  God,  this  very  dream  has  left 

Me  sickened  and  of  peace  bereft, 

What  then  to  feeling  souls  must  be 

The  stern,  the  black,  the  damned  reality! 


WHY? 

Why  is  her  face  so  fair  to  me? 

Why  is  her  mouth  so  sweet? 
Why  is  her  smile  so  rare  to  me, 

Her  beauty  so  complete? 

Why  is  she  all  divine  to  me, 
A  red,  red  rose,  new  blown? 

Why  is  her  kiss  like  wine  to  me? 
Her  voice  like  music's  own? 


And  Other   Poems.  379 

Why  is  she  like  the  sun  to  me, 

Or  like  the  golden  dawn? 
Why  is  it  darkness  unto  me 

Whenever  she  is  gone? 

Why  are  her  wants  supreme  to  me, 

My  constant,  one  employ? 
Why  is  she  all  a  dream  to  me, 

A  wonder  and  a  joy? 

Why  is  her  hair  so  bright  to  me, 

All  curls,  all  silk,  all  gold? 
Why  are  her  eyes  a  light  to  me 

To  guide  me  and  uphold? 

Why  is  her  laugh  so  much  to  me 

It  sets  me  all  astir? 
Why  are  her  glances  such  to  me 

That  I  would  die  for  her? 


FORTUNE-SICK. 

I  would  open  my  heart  as  I  open  a  door 
And  welcome  the  Angel  of  Death, 

For  I'm  weary  of  being  unhappy  and  poor, 
Of  drawing  life's  pain-laden  breath. 


380  lone, 

I  am  weary  of  toiling  that  others  may  rest, 
Of  starving   that   others   may   feast: 

I  am  sick  of  a  Fortune  that  makes  me  its  jest, 
Its  gold-burdened,  thistle-fed  beast. 

I  am  cut  to  the  heart  with  the  cheat  of  it  all, 
The  shame,  the  unkindness  and  wrong: 

With  the  height  and  the  depth  and  the  breadth  of 

that  wall 
Dividing  the  weak  from  the  strong. 

I  am  mad  with  a  madness  that ys  not  of  the  brain, 

And  surgery  never  can  heal, 
And  I  chafe  at  my  thoughts  as  a  man  at  a  chain 

That  bindeth  him  unto  the  wheel. 

I  am  sick  of  the  mouthings  and  empty  advice 
Of  those  who  have  never  known  want — 

As  they  counsel  the  poor,  o'er  their  wine  and  their 

spice, 
Their  words  are  a  blow  and  a  taunt. 

0  my  God  for  a  century,  oh  for  a  land 
Where  men  in  the  sunlight  might  grow 

Like  the  trees  that  touch  heaven,  and  evermore 

stand 
Untroubled  by  shock  or  by  blow. 


And   Othej   Poems.  381 


ONE  OF  THE  MILLIONS. 

The  stunted  infant  of  a  stunted  pair, 

In  squalor  bred,  in  sickness  and  despair, 

His  eyes  first  op'ning  on  a  factory's  red  glare. 

Untimely  issued  from  his  mother's  womb, 
Who  e'en  in  childbirth  labored  at  the  loom 
To  earn  the  daily  crust  that  kept  her  from  the 
tomb. 

One  limb  was  twisted,  and  an  iron  wheel 
Glared  on  his  bosom  like  an  angry  seal — 
The  birthmark  of  this  child  crushed  under  Mam- 
mon's heel. 

A  beast  of  burden  born  the  self-same  night 

Had  scarce  so  early  quit  its  mother's  sight 

To  bear  the  yoke  of  labor  as  this  stunted  wight. 

With  speech  unformed  and  limbs  unschooled  in 

play* 

He  quit  the  hovel  of  loose  drift  and  clay 
Which  he  called  "home"  because  it  kept  the  rain 
away, 


382  lone, 

And  like  a  brute  made  in  our  human  form 
Went  down  to  labor  with  that  motley  swarm 
Which  digs  and  delves  the  coal  that  keeps  the 
gentle  warm. 

(0  Poverty,  thou  art  an  hellish  thing. 

You  widow  every  hope ;  each  bosom  wring ; 

Thy  dullest  barb  is  sharper  than  the  adder's  sting. 

Betwixt  the  black  earth  and  its  nadir  fire 
Men  slave  like  beasts  to  gain  a  meager  hire, 
And  all  because  of  thee,  thou  wolf  who  dost  not 
tire!) 

He  labored  in  the  darkness  of  the  mine, 
This  being  born  with  human  face  divine 
And  in  his  heart  the  tracings  of  a  high  design, 

Until  his  speech  grew  brutish  and  he  spoke 
Like  brute  to  brute,  and  through  the  damp  and 

smoke 
His  face  glared  forth  like  some  strange  animal  in 

yoke. 

(Nor  call  him  "slave" — the  very  word  is  shame; 
Call  him  "a  toiler,  poor  and  without  blame": 
Yet  slavery  fs  as  bitter  by  any  other  name!) 


And   Other   Poems.  383 

And  he  was  numbered  like  a  branded  brute 
By  those  who  ruled  his  body  absolute 
Nor   recognized  his  soul,   a   shriveled   thing  and 
mute. 

But  wherefore  should  he  rave?     What  boots  a 

name 

To  one  whose  only  record  is  of  shame, 
A  poor  untutored  beast  but  fit  for  gas  and  flame? 

The  sun  in  heaven  seemed  not  made  for  him, 
And  Beauty  mocked  him  as  with  twisted  limb 
He  dragged  himself  from  sleep  to  labors  cold  and 
grim. 

'T  is  labor  that  's  the  father  of  the  man 
And  damning  that  you  damn  the  artisan — 
3T  was  labor  that  had  warped  him  from  the  nobler 
plan. 

A  labor  bestial-like ;  toil  terrible 

That  bodes  for  neither  slave  nor  master  well; 

A  daily  hell  of  toil  where  wheels  of  brass  rebel. 

And  so  he  sweated  for  his  daily  hire, 
For  that  strained  little  which  the  poor  require 
To  keep  them  at  their  toil  and  feed  the  living 
fire. 


384  lone, 

One  of  the  millions,  the  countless  multitude 
Whom  fortune  shuns,  whom  all  the  joys  elude, 
Whose  numbers  daily  failing,  daily  are  renewed. 

Nor  Beauty's  self,  nor  Beauty's  name  he  knew — 
Ah,  what  to  him  were  flowers  midst  the  dew, 
Who  was  denied  the  fruit  that  midst  those  flowers 
grew ! 

The  starved  flesh  dies,  but  starve  the  human  mind 
And  it  grows  rankly  like  some  monster  kind 
And  ranges  wide  as  hell,  corrupt  and  cruel  and 
blind. 

And  daily  he  was  starved  of  every  truth, 
To  grow  in  evil  as  he  grew  from  youth, 
His  ignorance  rankling  in  him  like  the  rabid's 
tooth. 

From  curses  first  he  learned  the  name  of  God, 
This  wretched  human,  and  he  daily  trod 
All  goodness  underfoot  as  if  it  were  a  clod. 

Some  thought  him  damned  ere  his  nativity, 
As  weeds  are  weeds  and  cannot  other  be 
Though  angels  water  them  with  tears  of  sanctity. 

But  he  who  slaves  unceasing  save  when  crime 
Breaks  through  his  labors  for  a  little  time 
Rears  all  its  serpent-aspect  and  aspires  to  climb, 


And  Other   Poems.  385 

What  can  he  know  of  sweetness  or  of  light, 
Of  beauty's  largess  or  of  manhood's  height; 
What  good  can  move  him  or  what  tenderness  in- 
vite? 

The  son  of  Caesar,  by  a  she-wolf  bred, 
Upon  all  fours  will  go  with  wolfish  tread, 
His  vision  narrowed  to  prey,  the  godhood  in  him 
dead. 

And  so  perhaps  less  sorely  but  as  sure 
Did  wolfish,  bestial-like  environ  lure 
The  godhead  from  this  man  and  every  good  ob- 
scure. 

His  youth  was  scarcely  over  ere  he  slew 

The  overseer  of  his  motley  crew 

And  deep  into  a  shaft  the  bloody  body  threw. 

The  deed  was  bitter,  but  the  wages  sweet — 
The  dead  man's  hoarded  gold  lay  at  his  feet — 
And  blood  is  only  blood,  but  gold  is  drink  and 
meat! 

With  eager  hands  he  seized  upon  the  gold 
And  left  the  murdered  man  all  stark  and  cold, 
With  face  upturned  to  God  and  frightful  to  be- 
hold, 


386  lone, 

Then  westward  fled  before  the  rising  sun, 
The  deed  of  murder  pondered,  plotted,  done, 
His  own  damnation  sure,  society's  begun. 

Now  he,  who  for  a  season  without  toil 
Has  lived  on  stolen  gold,  no  more  will  moil, 
And  sweat  and  slave,  but  like  the  tiger  will  de- 
spoil. 

So  when  this  murderer's  purse  had  emptied  been 
Of  all  the  profits  of  his  deadly  sin, 
He  thrust  still  deeper  in  crime  his  hand  already 
in, 

And  if  by  chance  there  yet  remained  as  guest 
One  spark  divine  within  his  brutish  breast, 
His  second  murder  damned  it  blacker  than  the 
rest. 

(0  Muse,  shall  you  record  that  awful  crime 
And  make  an  instrument  of  verse  and  rhyme 
To  blazon  down  our  shame  into  our  children's 
time? 

May  song  forbid !   It  was  too  damnable, 

Too  black  for  those  black  records  such  as  tell 

Of  deeds  delighting  fiends  and  carried  out  in  hell. 


And  Other  Poems.  387 

Leave  it  to  silence  and  the  wiser  wrath 
Of  Him  who  both  an  hour  and  angel  hath 
To  flame  the  sword  of  heaven  o'er  the  guilty's 
path.) 

Thus  he,  the  wretched  human  of  our  song, 
From  brutish  labor  turned  to  brutish  wrong, 
And  ever  swifter,  further,  he  was  borne  along. 

Criminality  he  made  his  trade  and  jest, 
And  grew  to  love  the  darker  life  and  quest, 
His  heart-latch  ever  out  for  crime  to  gain  his 
breast. 

Nor  damned  himself  alone,  but  turned  to  teach 
Evil  to  all  who  came  within  the  reach 
Of   that   most  filthy  thing,   his   brutish  human 
speech. 


0  SHE  IS  FAIK  TO  LOOK  UPON. 

0  she  is  fair  to  look  upon 
But  fairer  when  you  know  her, 

And  though  your  knowledge  may  increase 
You  never  shall  outgrow  her. 


388  lone, 

Her  beauty  grows  upon  one's  eyes, 
Her  goodness  on  one's  feeling: 

Her  very  step  has  that  in  it 

Which  brings  the  spirit  healing. 

Fll  not  compare  her  to  a  saint, 
For  she  ?s  too  sweetly  human; 

Nor  to  an  angel,  tall  and  bright, 
For  she  is  all  a  woman. 

I'll  not  compare  this  maid  at  all; 

Suffice  she  's  fair  and  saintly, 
And  brightest  words  are  dusty  glass 

And  mirror  her  but  faintly. 


I  SAW  HER  LOVELY  FACE  BUT  ONCE. 

I  saw  her  lovely  face  but  once, 

Yet  shall  forget  it  never; 
The  curls  that  clustered  'round  her  brow 

Shall  haunt  my  heart  forever. 

I  scarcely  knew  how  fair  she  was 

Nor  how  her  beauty  moved  me, 
Till  she  was  lost  amid  the  throng — 

Then  all  my  heart  reproved  me. 


And   Other   Poems.  389 

I  stretch   out  yearning  arms  for  her 

But  cannot  draw  her  near  me: 
I  breathe  a  message  on  the  air, 

But   ah,   she   cannot  hear   me. 

0  did  I  know  her  dwelling  place 
How  soon  Fd  come  unto  her; 

0  did  I  know  her  lovely  name 
I'd  seek  her  out  and  woo  her. 


WHERE  IS  MY  LITTLE  GIRL  TO-NIGHT? 

0  God !  where  is  my  little  girl  to-night, 

The  daughter  of  my  home — 
Far,  far  beyond  a  father's  aching  sight 

0  whither  does  she  roam  ? 

My  love  for  her  was  all  idolatrous, 

She  was  her  mother's  pride, 
Until  she  fell — and  went  away  from  us! 

0  God,  that  she  had  died! 

We  hoped  to  marry  her  to  some  good  man 

To  be  his  lovely  wife, 
And  dear  unto  her  mother  was  our  plan, 

And  dear  to  me  as  life. 


390  lone, 

But  devils  (0  that  I  had  understood!) 

In  saintly  raiment  came — 
And  she  is  fallen  from  her  womanhood 

And  bears  a  nameless  name! 

0  God,  where  is  she  wandering  to-night- 
Down  what  great  city's  street? 

What  open  doors,  aglare  with  hell,  invite 
Her  weary,  wayward  feet? 


SOMEWHERE. 

Though  we  are  worn  with  wearinesa 
And  sick  at  heart  and  sad, 

And  life  seems  only  dreariness, 
Somewhere  the  world  is  glad. 

Somewhere  the  clouds  are  lifting 
And  the  winds  have  ceased  to  blow. 

And  the  golden  light  is  drifting 
Upon  the  world  below. 

Though  we  have  lost  the  feeling 

And  faith  in  God  divine, 
Somewhere  there  's  always  kneeling 

A  soul  at  Christian  shrine. 


And  Other  Poems.  391 

Though  the  knell  is  tolling,  tolling, 

Over  a  love  our  own, 
Somewhere  are  sweethearts  strolling 

And  the  rose  is  newly  blown. 

Somewhere  a  babe  is  waking 

Within   his   little   cot, 
Though  our  own  heart  is  breaking 

For  a  lamb  who  waketh  not. 

Though  all  our  nights  are  appalling 
And  our  days  are  filled  with  care, 

The  smile  of  God  is  falling 
Somewhere,  always  somewhere! 


THE  POETS'  QUEEN. 

She  sprung  from  Beauty's  immemorial  line, 
And  was  herself  the  fairest  of  her  race ; 
And  ever  to  her  stately  dwelling  place 

The  minstrels  came,  like  palmers  to  a  shrine. 

Where  Hesper  is  the  evening  star  in  June, 
Westward  she  dwelt  amid  an  island  estate; 
There  Neptune's  steed  champed  at  her  sea-girt 
gate 

And  regal  palms  shook  to  the  silver  moon. 


392  lone, 

Beneath  her  latticed  easement,  sweet  with  balm, 
The  narcissus  and  the  rose  first  heaved  the  sod, 
And  Love — the  poets  sung — awaked  a  God 

Amid  her  garden  of  perpetual  palm. 

Her  beauty  was  of  earth  as  roses  are — 

Mortal,  but  nothing  that  might  lead  astray: 
The  glory  of  her  eyes  held  sovereign  sway, 

But  blasted  none,  like  some  bright,  evil  star. 

A  splendid  pride  was  softened  in  her  mien — 
She  bended  as  the  stately  lily  bends 
When  silver  dew  upon  the  field  descends, 

And  bows  that  flower  low,  but  not  to  stain. 

Her  eyes  were  bright  as  stars  set  for  a  sign 
In  heaven,  and  in  her  soft-clustering  hair 
The  Spirit  and  the  Love  that  made  her  fair 

Had  left  the  fragrance  of  its  breath  divine. 

Forever  open  and  forever  bright, 

Her  sculptured  gates  looked  out  upon  the  sea; 

Fit  entrance  to  her  halls  where  Poetry 
Dwelt  like  presence  all  compact  of  light. 

Queen  of  the  Poets  and  Olympus'  Xine, 

Oft  would  she  walk  at  twilight's  pensive  close 
Where  silver  fountains  like  young  palms  uprose, 

And  hark  unto  bright  J3olus  in  the  pine. 


And  Other  Poems.  393 

Or  with  the  morn,  soft-op'ning  as  the  rose, 
And  with  the  rose's  vermeil  flush  and  light, 
She  took  her  harp  and  bid  adieu  to  night, 

While  chord  by  chord  the  stars  sunk  to  repose. 

But,  lo !  long  seasons  she  has  been  at  rest, 
And  no  more  shall  inspire  the  minstrel  brood, 
And  given  are  her  isles  to  solitude 

Like  a  dead  Orion  within  the  west. 


VIOLA; 

0  rare  is  the  maiden,  Viola, 
And  healing  is  her  touch ; 

And  I  feel  the  words  I  utter 
But  when  I  sing  of  such. 

How  gracious  is  her  presence, 
How  fair  her  lovely  frame, 

My  heart  can  never  utter, 
And  poetry  hath  no  name. 

To  the  stars  of  bright  midsummer, 

With  orient  pearl  anew, 
The  rose  is  linked,  and  its  sweetness 

Is  blown  abroad  with  the  dew. 


394  Ione> 

But  there  is  a  breath  more  fragrant 
Than  on  the  midsummer  air — 

The  breath  of  the  Loves  that  linger 
In  the  dusk  of  Viola's  hair. 

And  were  I  not  always  a  poet 
I  were  a  poet  this  once, 

To  sing  of  the  maiden,  Viola, 

And  the  light  of  her  countenance. 


THE    END. 


BOOKS  YOU  NVST  READ 
SOONER.   OR   LATER 

Book  by  the  Author  of 
A  Girl  and  the  Devil ! 


We  beg  to  announce  for  autumn  a  new  novel  from 
the  pen  of  JEANNETTE  LLEWELLYN  EDWARDS,  entitled 

LOVE  IN  THE  TROPICS 

The  scene  of  Miss  Edwards'  new  work  is  laid  in 
strange  lands,  and  a  treat  may  be  confidently  prom- 
ised the  wide  reading  public  whose  interest  in  her  first 
book  has  caused  it  to  run  through  over  a  dozen  editions. 

«•  LOVE  IN  THE  TROPICS0 

tuill   be    ready   about  ffo'Vcmber  1.   and 
particular*  tuill  be  duly  announced. 


The  New  Womanhood 

BY   WlNNIFRED  H.   COOLEY. 
$1.25. 

No  more  original,  striking  and  brilliant  treatise  on 
the  subject  indicated  by  the  title  has  been  given  the 
vast  public  which  is  watching  the  widening  of  woman's 
sphere.  Mrs.  Cooley  is  a  lecturer  and  writer  of  many 
years  experience;  she  is  in  the  vanguard  of  the  move- 
ment and  no  one  is  better  qualified  to  speak  to  the  great 
heart  of  womankind. 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  READ 
SOONER    OH    LATER 

Marcelle 

A  Tale  of  the  Revolution 

BY  WlLLJBERT  DAVIS  AND  CLAUDIA   BRANNON. 

I2mo,  cloth.     Illustrated. 
$1.00. 

A  fascinating  story  of  the  Revolutionary  period,  in 
dramatic  form,  in  which  the  treachery  of  Benedict 
Arnold  and  the  capture  of  Major  Andre  are  the  climaxes. 
The  loves  of  Andre  and  Marcelle  (herself  a  spy)  lend  a) 
very  charming  touch  of  romance. 


The  Burton  Manor 

A  NOVEL 

BY  REV.  M.  V.  BROWW. 
I2mo,  cloth.    $1.50. 

A  most  thoughtful,  able  and  authoritative  work  in 
engaging  narrative  form,  dealing  with  the  existing  evils 
of  the  liquor  trade.  The  author  has  wisely  embodied 
his  conclusions  in  charming  fiction— or  fact? — and  thus 
the  book  will  appeal  to  a  public  as  wide  as  the  continent. 


BOOKS  YOV  MVST  READ 
SOONER    OR    LATER 

Told  eU  Twilight 

BY  EVA  BROWNE. 

A  delightful  collection  of  stories  and  poems. 

(Author's  photo.) 

$1.00. 


Job  Trotter 

BY  SYLVESTER  FIELD. 
5oc. 

A  unique  work,  proving  that  the  "earthly  paradise" 
of  the  colored  race  is  Africa.  This  book  is  decidedly 
the  best  work  that  has  yet  appeared  on  the  subject. 


The  Sin  of  Ignorance 

BY  HENRIETTA  SIEGEL, 
$1.00. 

An  exceedingly  clever  story,  by  a  New  York  girl,  who 
pictures  with  a  fearless  hand  the  domestic  misery  result- 
ing from  drink  and  dissipation. 

(4  special  drawings.) 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  HEAD 
SOONER.    OR.   LATER. 


Llewellyn 

A  NOVEL 

BY  HADLEY  S.  KIMBERLING. 

Cloth.    $1.50. 
5  Illustrations  by  S.  Klarr. 

Here  is  a  story  whose  artistic  realism  will  appeal  to 
everyone,  while  its  distinction  as  a  serious  novel  is  made 
evident  by  its  clever  analysis,  sparkling  dialogue  and 
thrilling  and  powerful  situations.  "Llewellyn"  will  win 
all  hearts  by  her  purity  and  charm. 


of  the  Modern  World 

By  E.  G.  DOYEN. 

I2mo,  cloth,  handsomely  produced. 

$1.50. 

The  title  of  this  book  will  arouse  curiosity,  and  its 
brilliant  contents  will  fully  reward  the  wide  public  which 
it  will  reach. 


A  Missouriark's  Honor 

BY  W.  W.  ARNOLD. 

Goth,  i2mo.    $1.00. 

3  Illustrations. 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  READ 
SOONER.   OR   LATER 


Why  JVot  Order 


Evelyn 

A  Story  of  the   West  and   the   Far   East 
BY  MRS.  ANSEL  OPPSFUEIM. 

4  Illus.    $1.50. 
Limited  edition  in  leather,  $2.00. 

Tb*  PKM  b«»  spoken  of  ttls  book  with  unqualified  term* 


The  Lfest  of  the  CaveJiers 

BY  N.  J.  FLOYD. 

9  Drawings  and  Author's  Photo. 
$1.50. 

/  "No  wiser  or  more  brilliant  pen  has  told  the  story  of 
the  Civil  War  than  Capt  Floyd's ;  no  work  more  thrilling 
simply  as  a  romance  has  recently  been  within  the  reach 
of  book-lovers." 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  READ 
SOONER   OR    LATER 

Ltewdy  Century 

BY  MRS.  A.  G.  KINTZEL. 

4   Drawings   by    Hartman.v 

Decorated  cover  in  black,  red  and  gold. 

$1.50. 

Critics  who  have  seen  the  book  declare  'it  superior  to 
"Leave  Me  My  Honor,"  the  success  which  has  recently 
brought  Mrs.  Kintzel  into  prominence  as  9  story-teller 
who  has  something  to  say  and  can  say  it 

"Sparkling  from  cover  to  cover." 


NAN   &  SUE 

Stenographers 

BY  HARRIET  C.  CULLATOM.S 
$1.00. 

You've  no  doubt  heard  of  this  book!  It  stands  all 
alone  in  the  originality  of  its  title  and  subject,  and  every- 
one knows  how  charming  a  subject  "Nan  &  Sue,  Ste- 
nographers," must  be.  It  is  the  diary  of  a  typewriting 
office  in  New  York  run  by  two  young  and  pretty  girls, 
who  have  the  most  amusing  adventures.  The  book's  ap- 
pearance is  as  original  and  charming  as  Nan  and  Sue 
themselves. 

Order  now  and  join  the  procession  on  the  autumn 
loth  edition. 


BOOKS  YOU  MVST  READ 
SOONER    OR    LATER 

The  Instrument  Tuned 

BY  ROSA  B.  Hirr. 

Attractive  Binding",  75  cents. 

Limited  Edition  in  White  and  Gold,  $t.oo, 

(Author's  photo.) 

An  able  and  interesting  work  on  a  comparatively  new 
subject — Psycho-physical  culture — of  whose  methods  the 
author  has  made  successful  application.  The  book  is  full 
of  common-sense  suggestions  and  is  admirably  adapted 
to  the  needs  of  humanity  in  general. 

The  chapter-captions  will  give  an  excellent  idea  of  the, 
comprehensive  and  practical  character  of  the  work:, 

Various  Therapeutic  Agents., 

Influence  of  Mind. 

Extravagant  Emotions^ 

Insomnia. 

Relaxation. 

Harmony  the  La*  of  Nature^ 


Order 


All  of  the  books  named  in  this  magazine  to  be  had 

from  any  newsdealer,  or 


YB  I200T 


. 


